


No One There to Save You

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Clothed Sex, Collars, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Hurt/Comfort, Hybrid!Sherlock, Insecure Sherlock, Insecurity, Johnlock - Freeform, Let's Write Sherlock, M/M, Mentions of non-con, Mentions of past abuse, More tags to be added, NSFW, Scars, Slow Burn, Texting, Unfinished, cat!lock, pet!verse, violin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 00:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 36,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the "Let's Write Sherlock" prompt on Tumblr. I used the song "Welcome to My Life" by Simple Plan for my inspiration and the title. Characters belong to Moffattiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Plot belongs to me.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Sherlock could see it in their eyes. The pity. The disgust. The open curiosity. They wondered what he could have done that was so horrible that his Master would abandon him on the street, a sign hanging from his neck that welcomed the passerby to take the “worthless, pitiful excuse for a pet” off his hands. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken

Sherlock could see it in their eyes. The pity. The disgust. The open curiosity. They wondered what he could have done that was so horrible that his Master would abandon him on the street, a sign hanging from his neck that welcomed the passerby to take the “worthless, pitiful excuse for a pet” off his hands. 

The sign wasn't heavy, but the string lay on his bare neck, where his collar used to be. Sherlock's hands were cuffed together in front of him with leather bracers that he could have easily escaped if he cared to do so, but he just didn't. His silky black ears were flat against his head, and his long black tail lay lifelessly behind him, displaying his despair even more obviously than the dead look in his eyes. And he just didn't care. Victor had left him, and Victor had been the only one to ever even remotely put up with him.

Sherlock wished that he would die. It would certainly be better than this. Watching people walk by and look down at him with distant pity and removed sadness, not bothering to even take a closer look at him. He'd been there for two days now, unmoving, unwanted. He knew he wouldn't last another day. He was too malnourished, which was also his fault. Victor would sometimes withhold food when he'd been particularly bad, and Sherlock had been particularly bad more than he'd been particularly good.

By mid-afternoon, his hands were shaking, and the pain in his stomach had grown to a constant ache. His mouth was desert-dry, and it was a struggle to keep his eyes open. He did some quick mental calculations and came to the conclusion that he would be unconscious by the time the sun set, and dead by morning. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and waited.

Not ten minutes later, he felt fingers oh so gently card through his hair, brushing over his ears in a soft caress. He let out an involuntary whine, trying to open his eyes. It was so difficult, though. They were so heavy, and it was so much easier to simply let them stay closed and wait for...

His train of thought was cut off abruptly when he felt the sign being lifted from his neck. The hands returned to his hair, and two fingers pressed against the spot under his ear, taking his pulse. A soft voice swore, and then Sherlock felt his face pressed against a warm shoulder as even warmer arms wrapped around him.

He made a noise in his throat, not of complaint, dear god no, but more of a question. What was going on? The touches were far from familiar, which meant it wasn't Victor that was holding him against his chest, but some stranger off the street. The thought made Sherlock bat at the stranger's chest with his hands, though the action was completely useless since he didn't even have the strength to open his eyes.

The hand was back in his hair then, and Sherlock gave up all pretenses of giving resistance. It felt too good, and it had been too long since someone had touched him with any sort of affection. Something pressed against his lips, and he opened his mouth obediently, only slightly surprised when he tasted a few drops of cool, sweet water on his tongue. He leaned forward, trying to get more, but the hand in his hair dropped to the back of his neck, holding him still.

“Take it slow. Else you'll make yourself sick.”

The voice was calm, quiet, and very, very masculine. Sherlock gave a second involuntary whimper, images flashing through his mind. Hybrids like him were often victims of rape and murder, but no one ever put much effort into the investigations. They were, after all, less than human. If this man had any sort of wicked intentions, Sherlock was going to be powerless to defend himself.

“Shh, it's all right.” The voice was almost a whisper, calming and comforting. A little stream of water spilled into his mouth, and Sherlock swallowed it eagerly. It soothed his parched throat and felt like ice in his empty stomach, and then way he tried to curl in on himself was half self-preservation and half because of the pain.

The man holding him shifted, and Sherlock felt a heavy, warm weight settle around his shoulders. A jacket. Leather, his brain told him. Well worn, obviously a favourite article of clothing. The man tugged it up until it covered Sherlock's head as well, shielding him from the glare of the sun.

A few more drops of water rushed into his mouth, and this time, Sherlock carefully brought his hand up, laying it over the man's on the bottle. He didn't try to tip it, just simply let it lay there, trying to tell him without any words that he could handle it, that he'd take it slow as instructed.

“Can you open your eyes for me?” the voice asked quietly. The hand played with the hair at the nape of his neck, gently wrapping the curls around his fingers. Sherlock found himself relaxing into the hand and the chest he was held against as he shook his head.

The man tipped the bottle up a bit, and he let Sherlock bring it back down. He only took a bit more than the man had given him, knowing that he had been right. He was severely dehydrated, and large quantities of anything would just make him sick. He really, really didn't want to be sick.

“For me, little one,” the voice was saying. Sherlock could hear his heartbeat in his chest, strong and steady, and he let it ground him. “Just let me see your eyes.”

Sherlock leaned away from the bottle, tipping his face up toward the voice. He felt his face scrunch up as he opened one eye, and suddenly he realized that the man had covered his head with his jacket so that when Sherlock did open his eyes, he wouldn't be blinded by the sunlight.

The man was blonde. That was the first thing Sherlock noticed, followed by his eyes. They were kind eyes, dotted with concern and a hint of a natural strength and authority that just made Sherlock tip his head and rest it against the man's chest again. Then he smiled, and Sherlock was suddenly very, very glad he'd opened his eyes. That image would be a very nice thing to be the last thing he saw.

“There you go,” the man murmured, his eyes darting over Sherlock's face. “Very good.” The praise sounded sincere, and Sherlock felt a purr rumble in his chest. The man's smile widened. Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth twitch in return before he opened his mouth a bit, asking for more water.

The man brought it to his mouth again, holding the bottle steady and giving Sherlock another small amount. As he swallowed, the man set the bottle down on the ground and gently lifted Sherlock's bound wrists. He studied them for a moment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the generic key that fit most locks of that sort. He unlocked them and let them fall away, touching Sherlock's wrists with his fingertips before picking up the bottle again.

Sherlock wanted to close his eyes again, but he was unsure if he could. The man had asked him to open them, and he was being so kind. So gentle. The least he could do was obey that little, tiny favour. He blinked slowly and put both his hands on the water bottle, looking up at the man in askance as he brought it to his lips.

The man made sure Sherlock had a good grip on the bottle before he let it go. “Slowly,” he reminded him, and Sherlock nodded. He took a small sip, showing he could obey, blinking rather slowly again. Keeping his eyes open was harder than he had thought it would be.

A few moments later, Sherlock felt the bottle being taken out of his hands. He made a distressed sound in his throat, not ready to stop drinking, but the man just stroked his hair until he relaxed again. “There you go. You can have some more in a few minutes, okay? Let's get you out of the cold.”

Sherlock felt the man shift to get up, and he scrabbled for something to hold on to, settling for the man's jumper. His fingers gripped the beige material tightly, desperately, terrified that he was going to leave him there on the sidewalk. “Please,” he croaked, wincing at how his voice sounded. “Please.”

The man stopped moving, his free hand coming up to cover Sherlock's on his chest. “I'm not going to leave you here,” he said, squeezing his hand gently before slipping his arm under the hybrid's knees. “Don't worry. I've got you.”

Sherlock looked up at him with wide eyes that had the first inklings of tears in them. He nodded, but he didn't let go of the man's jumper. Just in case. Any moment now, the man would see the sign properly and realize that Sherlock wasn't worth the trouble, and he'd change his mind and try to leave him there on the sidewalk, and Sherlock _couldn't_ let that happen.

He swallowed, trying to make it so his voice wouldn't sound like it was coming from a dying man. “I'll be good,” he said slowly, as submissively as he could. “I promise.”

He heard the man's breath catch in his throat, and he screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the moment to come when his back hit the ground. A few tears leaked through his lids, falling down his face and landing on the man's jumper. “Please.”

The man's arms tightened around him, and Sherlock felt as if they squeezed a sob out of him. He turned his face against the man's chest, trying to hide himself, because who in the world would want a crying, dirty, skinny hybrid? Who would want someone so damaged?

“Hey, hey.” The hand was back in his hair, stroking, tugging softly, brushing over his ears in a manner that was soothing and grounding. “I'm not going to leave you here,” he repeated. “I'm taking you with me. I'm taking you home, and we're going to get you some more water, and maybe some food, and definitely some blankets and nice, warm bed. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded, and he tried to hold the sobs in, but they still wracked his body. He ran out of tears almost immediately, but he couldn't stop the way he shook and trembled in the man's arms, even as he petted him. “S-sorry, I-I can't-t st-top, I c-can't, I can't, I...”

The next thing he knew, the man had shifted so that the blonde was kneeling on the ground and Sherlock was straddling his lap, his face tucked against the crook of his neck. Sherlock immediately locked his legs around the man's waist and his arms around his neck, keeping his eyes closed. He held his breath until he thought he was going to pass out, until the man gently patted his back and whispered, “Breathe.” He sucked in a huge, shaky breath, and eventually, the sobs died down, leaving him feeling spent and miserable.

The man rubbed his back. “There you go,” he murmured. “Better?” He didn't wait for an answer, and Sherlock was silently glad, because he didn't think he could have given one. “Come on.”

Standing, the man took Sherlock with him, supporting him with his arms. Almost unconsciously, Sherlock looped his tail around the man's wrist, clutching at the back of his jumper with his hands. He kept his face pressed against his neck, breathing in the scent that was quickly becoming comforting and familiar. 

The man walked them to the end of the street, and raised the hand that didn't have Sherlock's tail holding it captive to hail a cab. When the car pulled up in front of them, he got into it without making Sherlock move. By that time, the hybrid was half asleep, lulled into tranquility by the sound of John's heartbeat and the warmth of his body and his jacket. 

He heard the man give an address, and then the hand returned to his hair, scratching just behind his ears. Sherlock didn't even try to hold in his purr, even going as far as pushing up against the man's hand a little, humming when he was rewarded with a series of small tugs to his hair.

“What's your name?” the man asked after a moment, and it took Sherlock a full fifteen seconds to realize that the question had been directed at him.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he whispered, giving his own family name, not Victor's. Never Victor's. He didn't belong to Victor anymore.

“It's very nice to meet you, Sherlock,” the man said softly. “I'm John. John Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be kind. This is my first foray into anything other than fluffy fluff that has the sole purpose of being fluffy, and I just really, really wanted to write some Cat!Sherlock. Really, I wanted to read some Cat!Sherlock, but there isn't enough of it that I can find. So!
> 
> There will be smut. Eventually. And loads of angst, and hurt/comfort, hurt/hurt, and hurt/no comfort. There will be mentions of past violence and descriptions of current violence, and well as some general darkness and depravity. (No dark!John, though. I don't like dark!John). In other words, it will earn its Explicit rating.


	2. Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At PresidentWeasel's suggestion, here is chapter 2, with some Sherlock trying to repay John for his kindness in the only way he knows how.

The hybrid was just so _cold_.

He was thin, too. And not in the way that was completely natural. He was emaciated and gaunt in a way that spoke of months of not enough food. His hair was matted, and his ears drooped lifelessly, even when John petted them. All in all, John was surprised the dark-haired hybrid was still alive.

He didn't make Sherlock get out of his lap while they were in the cab. Between the tail curled around his wrist, and the way his fingers were fisted in his jumper, John figured that the hybrid was happy where he was and even afraid of being let go.

That also bothered him. Sherlock's words from earlier, on the street, were still playing back in his mind. “I'll be good,” he'd said, as if John had needed to be convinced to get him off the street. It hinted at a past that John had heard about all too often: an abusive, controlling Master who had unrealistic expectations of their pet. 

John could only thank whatever deity had been watching out for the hybrid. If John hadn't come across him, he would have died, or had someone take advantage of him, and both thoughts made him sick to his stomach.

He could feel Sherlock's purr against his neck, and it served as a sign telling him the hybrid was still conscious. The cab driver gave them a few odd looks before he pulled up in front 221b Baker Street, but John ignored him. While most people had developed casual, indifferent attitudes towards hybrids, John hadn't and wouldn't. He paid the driver and got out of the cab, still holding Sherlock close against his chest.

The brunette's fingers tightened in his jumper when he moved, and the purring stopped. “It's all right,” John murmured, fishing in his pocket for the key. “I'm not letting you go.” His words seemed to relax Sherlock a bit, enough that John felt his eyes close again and the purring resume. He opened the front door, stepping inside and giving Mrs. Hudson a small smile.

She immediately bustled over, but thankfully, her voice was quiet when she spoke. “What's wrong with him?” he asked, concern evident in her tone. “He's so small, John. Is that blood?”

John felt Sherlock tense, and he looked down, his breath catching when he saw that the back of the hybrid's shirt did indeed have stripes of dark, dried blood across it. He brought one hand up, gently petting the back of his head. “I found him on the street,” he said. “His Master must have left him there. Do you think you could run a warm bath for him? I'd be forever...”

“Yes, yes of course.” Mrs. Hudson didn't wait for him to finish before disappearing into her kitchen, most likely to prepare some food for them. John called a thank you after her. She really was good to him, far better than she had any reason to be. She let him live there practically rent free, and in return, he kept all three flats in good condition, repair-wise.

He carried Sherlock up the stairs, pushing to the door to his flat open with his foot. “How does that sound?” he asked quietly, walking into the kitchen. “A nice, warm bath, maybe some tea with a little honey in it for your throat.”

John set Sherlock down on the counter, but the hybrid didn't let go of him. He didn't answer him, either, and John was about to repeat the phrase when the brunette turned his head up slightly. “Tea sounds lovely,” he whispered in that softly broken tone of voice that make John's chest ache.

John scratched his scalp lightly. “Let go of me for just a second, and I'll make it, okay? I promise I'll stay here in the kitchen.” He waited for a few seconds until he felt Sherlock's grip loosen, and then stepped back. He patted Sherlock's tail, and that slowly uncurled as well, falling against the cabinet listlessly as Sherlock looked at the ground, his arms wrapped around himself. 

Hesitating for only a moment, John stripped off his jumper. He held it out for Sherlock, and the hybrid looked up, pale gray eyes meeting John's.

“Arms up,” John murmured. “It'll help get your temperature up while you wait for the tea and your bath.”

Sherlock gave him a grateful look and immediately obeyed, putting his arms up and wiggling into the jumper. He brought his knees up, resting his bare feet on the edge of the counter and wrapping his arms around his legs, watching John from under his fringe. “Thank you, sir.”

John looked over at him, shaking his head. “I'm not a sir,” he said as he put on the kettle. “You can call me John.”

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he nodded, his ears giving the first twitch John had seen. He scooted across the counter a little so that he was closer to John, tipping his head forward in an obvious request for John to resume petting him.

He did with a smile. Perhaps the psychological damage wasn't that bad, he thought, ruffling Sherlock's hair and stroking his ears. Sherlock resumed his purring, pushing up against John's hand and closing his eyes. 

John heard Mrs. Hudson come up the stairs and go into the bathroom, and a moment later, he heard the bath start to fill. He mouthed a “thank you” at her when she came back down, and smile gratefully when she set a tray of cheese and cracker and fruit down on the counter next to Sherlock. “You're a dear, Mrs. Hudson.”

She waved his compliment away. “You take care of him, John,” she said, waggling her finger. “He looks like he needs a kind soul in his life.”

The tea kettle whistled, and John let his hand drop from Sherlock's hair. He poured a cup of tea for the hybrid, and then went back over to him, patting his knee. “Do you think you can walk upstairs? If not, I can carry you.”

Sherlock's ears twitched toward the sound of his voice and he shook his head, curls bouncing gently. He buried his face in his knees and held out his arms tentatively, as if afraid that John hadn't actually meant it. “Carry me, please? I'm not heavy.”

“Yeah, I know. We'll fix that.” John picked the brunette up, waiting for him to latch on before picking up the tea as well. “You don't have anything against putting on a kilogram or two, right?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don't have anything against food,” he murmured against John's neck, and the doctor felt the muscles in his back tense for a moment. He patted his shoulder reassuringly and chuckled.

“Good, because Mrs. Hudson brought up that nice tray for you. I'm not the best cook, I'm warning you, but I can order takeaway just as well as the next man.” He carried Sherlock into the bathroom and sat down on the edge of the tub, reaching down to test the water. It was warm, but not scalding. Perfect. “Do you want me to leave while you take a bath?”

The moment he said the word “leave,” Sherlock's arms tightened around him and he shook his head frantically. “All right, all right,” John soothed, stroking his hair. “Hey, it's okay. I won't leave if you don't want me to. Just let me know.”

John felt a wet warmth on his neck, and he pulled back slightly, looking down at Sherlock. “Sherlock,” he murmured, reaching up to brush his tears away. “I'm not going to abandon you,” he said firmly. The hybrid looked up at him with red, watery eyes and bit his lip. “That's right. I'm going to take care of you, and if staying with you is part of what you need, I'm more than happy to do that.”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. “Thank you,” he whispered, slowly letting John's jumper go, releasing it from his death grip. He flexed his fingers a few times and then rubbed his eyes. “Will you stay? I don't... I don't want to be alone.”

“Of course,” John answered. “I can turn around while you undress, if that makes you feel more comfortable.” At his words, some sort of conflict passed over Sherlock's face, and John almost thought that he was going to start crying again. Wondering what his Master had done to make him so... /afraid/, John stroked his hair. “What is it?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, leaning into John's hand. “Nothing,” he said quietly, his voice rasping a bit. “Yes, please. If you would. Turn around, I mean.”

John ruffled Sherlock's hair a bit, and then stood, setting Sherlock down on the edge of the tub. “How about I go get you some fresh clothes?” he asked. “My room is just around the corner. It will take less than a minute. You can count, if you want.”

The blonde was unsure if the grateful look Sherlock shot him was over him leaving or the assurance that he wouldn't be gone long. He made sure the water was still warm, and then ducked out of the bathroom, going into his room and getting an old pair of sweatpants and a tshirt for the hybrid. He knocked lightly on the bathroom door before returning, stepping inside and closing it behind him.

Sherlock was sitting in the tub with his knees drawn up to his chest, eyes closed, with his head resting on his knees. His eye opened when John came in, focusing on the blond almost immediately. “Thirty-eight.”

“I told you,” John said, setting the clothes down on the counter. He walked over to the tub, sitting down on the edge. “Feeling warmer?”

Sherlock nodded, and John noticed that the water had taken on a slightly pinkish tinge. He glanced at the hybrid's back, and his breath caught at what he saw. His back was criss-crossed with what could only be lash marks, most of them scabbed over. John could see the scars from older marks under those, darker red lines that made a patchwork mess of Sherlock's back.

A few of the newer ones had been torn open and were bleeding sluggishly, sending little rivulets of red down Sherlock's back. The brunette was making no move to do anything, though, just looking up at John with his big, pale eyes.

John decided that if he ever met Sherlock's old Master, he would kill him.

“Let's get you washed up,” he said softly, standing up to get the removable shower head. He sat back down and turned the water on, making sure it wasn't too hot and the spray wasn't too strong before turning it on Sherlock's back and carefully rinsing it of the blood. “Is that okay?”

Sherlock's curls bounced, but he didn't say anything. John saw his arms tighten around his knees, however, so he brought his free hand up to his hair, gently stroking the dark locks. The water was much redder by the time John had finished, and goosebumps had formed on Sherlock's arms and shoulders.

“If you tip your head back, I'll wash your hair,” John murmured, and as soon as he spoke, Sherlock shifted so that his back was to John and tipped his head back. John patted his shoulder, and then reached for the shampoo. “Keep your eyes closed. I don't want to get any in them.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and kept still as John washed his hair. He did it twice, just to make sure all the dirt and grime was washed out, allowing himself to gently wash Sherlock's ears with a washcloth. The brunette started purring again at that, and his ears twitched when John rinsed his hair out. 

Rising, John got a towel and held it out for the hybrid. He watched carefully as Sherlock rose on unsteady, so he was ready to catch him when he stumbled getting out of the tub. Sherlock immediately curled against his chest, and John wrapped the towel around his shoulders. “You want to dry yourself off?” he asked as he slipped his arms around Sherlock's lean frame.

The hybrid nodded, but when John released him, he didn't take the towel. Instead, he let it drop to the ground as he sank to his knees in front of the blonde. Before John could take in what was happening, Sherlock had leaned forward and was nuzzling against his groin and hip, his hands clasped behind his back.

For a moment, John just stood there in shock. Sherlock seemed to take that a green flag, opening his mouth and running his lips up and down John's rapidly hardening length. John looked down and him and saw his arms trembling, and that was what brought him out of his daze.

“No, Sherlock, what are you doing?”

He put his hand on the hybrid's shoulder and pushed him back, hard enough to be firm but softly enough to not send him sprawling. He could feel Sherlock's body shaking under his hand, and the hybrid met his eyes for a brief moment before casting them to the floor. It had been long enough for John to see the panic and fear there, though. He opened his mouth to tell him that he didn't need to do that, that John wasn't his Master and Sherlock didn't need to repay him like that, but the hybrid cut him off.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly, his voice still hoarse. “I thought it would please you. I was wrong, and I am sorry.” He sniffed, and John saw something drip onto the floor, but he couldn't tell if it was a tear or a drop of water. “Please si... John, I did not know.” The sniff was more audible this time, and John was sure that they were indeed tears falling onto the floor. “I implore you to be kind with your punishment, please.”

John just knelt there for a moment, stunned. He took in Sherlock's bowed head, the way his hands were clasped behind his back, and the fact that the hybrid wasn't aroused at all. And, of course, that he was crying. John sighed and picked up the towel, slipping it around Sherlock's shoulders again.

“I'm not going to punish you, Sherlock.” He drew the hybrid forward into his arms, holding him close. Sherlock leaned into the contact, burying his face in the crook of John's neck. “I... Listen to me. You don't need to worry about what's going to please me, or about getting punished. It's not going to happen. I'm not like that. Even if you were my pet, I wouldn't.”

Sherlock didn't answer so John made sure the towel was wrapped around him and just held him until he stopped trembling. The hybrid murmured something that was muffled by the skin of John's neck, and then leaned back, pulling the towel around himself tightly. He kept his eyes on the floor and sat back on his heels, curling in on himself a bit.

“I'm not mad,” John said, ducking his head to try to meet Sherlock's eyes. “I promise. I just want you to be comfortable here, yeah? I don't want you to feel like you have to do anything like that.

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Thank you,” he murmured, keeping his eyes downcast. “You're a good man, John. I don't deserve this.”

This wasn't going to be easy, John realized. Sherlock was going to need time and lots of affection that didn't require reciprocation and someone to tell him it was all right for a long time. “Hey,” he said, reaching out to gently tip Sherlock's chin up. “You do. You've got every right to be safe and comfortable, just like the rest of us.” He ruffled the brunette's hair lightly, happy to see the hybrid's tail flick in response.

“Now. How about we get you dried off, and then go have that tea and food.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have another chapter, my pretties! But don't get used to his. I do kinda sorta have a life... sometimes. But it's Saturday night and that's obviously NOT when my life happens, hence the new chapter.
> 
> Poor John. He's got his work cut out for him.


	3. Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hurts himself; John is a saint.

Sherlock was small. He knew that. The woman John had called Mrs. Hudson had noticed it, as well, but John didn't seem bothered. Victor had always tried to get him to eat more, except he hadn't done a very good job of it, since Sherlock had been expected to service his Master after every meal he ate. The result had been that Sherlock simply hadn't eaten. Because of that, he was short and thin, smaller than even the smallest hybrids he'd seen.

That had been his first though when John pushed him away. _I'm too small. Too thin. I've disappointed him, and I haven't even known him for two hours yet, and now he's going to make me leave and..._

He'd apologized profusely, trying to amend his mistake, appealing to John's obvious good nature so that perhaps, perhaps, the lacerations on his back would have enough time to heal this time around. He didn't think he could stay conscious for another lashing.

And then there were a pair of arms around him, _comforting_ him. Telling him he wasn't going to be punished at all. Sherlock had felt himself veritably _melt_ into the contact, John's words washing over him in a calming wave.

When Sherlock didn't make a move to, John gently dried him off with the towel and then helped him dress. The clothes smelled of dust, but under that there was the newly familiar scent of _John_ , which Sherlock was quickly learning to associate with comfort and safety and warmth.

After he was dressed, John sat him down on the counter and handed him the mug of tea. “Your hair is going to be hard,” he said as Sherlock held the tea close to his body. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had something warm to drink, much less the last time someone had brushed his hair. 

“You don't have to...” he began, but quieted when John looked at him. He ducked his head, sipping at his tea. “It's a mess, is all.”

John nodded, and Sherlock felt his hand come up and brush over his ears. “It's all right. I've got the time, and it's going to be easier for me to do it than it is for you to do it yourself.”

The blonde got a comb out of a drawer, turning to face Sherlock. “You just worry about drinking your tea, yeah? Get yourself rehydrated.”

Sherlock heard himself purr as John began to comb his hair. He let his eyes flutter shut, his ears twitching as he sipped at the tea. “Thank you,” he murmured, curling around his knees and letting his head drop back a bit. “That feels lovely.”

Sherlock could almost _feel_ John grin. “Good,” the blonde said, working at a particularly nasty knot. Sherlock winced. “I'm guessing it's been a while since you've felt good.”

Swallowing, Sherlock nodded. He was quiet for a long minute, sipping at his tea until John had finally untangled that knot. When the strokes of the comb began to taper off, he sighed, fingers tightening around the mug. “Do you want me to tell you about it?” he asked quietly, his voice still slightly hoarse. Victor had made him _scream_ before he'd put him out on the street, and not in the way that he'd heard some other hybrids talk about. Victor always managed to hurt him, even when he'd been causing pleasure as well. Sherlock felt himself wincing at the memories, and his grip tightened on the mug, and the next think he knew, there was a loud crack and his lap was wet and his fingers were stinging and dripping with blood.

He blinked at the broken mug. Had he just done that? Had he just broken something John had given him? Still blinking stupidly, he looked up at the blonde helplessly, opening his mouth to apologize yet again for his actions.

He didn't expect John to hurriedly take the shattered mug from his hands and press his bleeding fingers against the towel while simultaneously holding him against his chest, tucking Sherlock's head under his chin. It was only then that Sherlock realized he was crying. Again. For the hundredth time in the past two hours.

“Hey, it's okay. It's all right. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, Sherlock.” John stroked his wet hair, peeling back the towel to check Sherlock's fingers. “That's quite a grip you've got there.”

Unbelievable, John's voice was still lighthearted, still patient and kind. Sherlock lifted his hips to help the blond tug off his wet pants, wincing as a few shards of ceramic hit the floor along with them. “I'm sorry, I don't know...”

John maneuvered Sherlock so that he was no longer sitting in the puddle of tea. “I know,” he murmured, reaching for the hem of the shirt and tugging it off Sherlock's body as well. “I know. It was an accident, Sher. It's okay.” He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's frame and lifted him up off the counter. “Hold onto me, yeah? We'll get you to bed, and you can eat something there.”

Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's waist, holding onto him tightly. He kept his eyes closed as John carried him into a bedroom, cracking on open only when he stopped. It had to be John's bedroom, and Sherlock felt a brief moment of panic before he pushed it down. John had proven himself to be a good, kind man, and Sherlock had no doubt that that would continue to be the case.

“Can you stay here while I go get the food?”

Sherlock nodded, unclasping his fingers from around John's neck. The blonde lowered him onto the bed, fluffing up a few pillows and helping Sherlock lean against them. He pulled the covers up over him, smiling a bit when Sherlock scooted down and curled up underneath them.

When John stepped out of the room, Sherlock allowed himself to yawn and nuzzled against the pillow that smelled so strongly of John. For the first time in a very, very long time, he felt safe, actually safe. Safe enough that he could close his eyes without worrying that Victor would come in and beat him for not sleeping in his cat bed. 

A thought occurred to Sherlock, and he tentatively stretched out his legs, smiling when he actually could The cat bed Victor had made him sleep in had been too small for him to even curl up in properly, but this bed... this bed was perfect. It was soft and warm and big, and Sherlock found himself sprawled over the entirety of it, face buried in John's pillow. He breathed in deeply and purred.

He heard John come in a few minutes later, and he thought about moving, but he was already half-asleep, and it just seemed like a bad idea. He heard John chuckle as well, and felt the bed shift as the blonde sat down on the side of it.

John's fingers were back in his hair, and his purring grew louder as he butted up against his hand. “Sleeping,” he mumbled into the pillow.

“You can in a minute,” John answered. The next moment, Sherlock felt something press against his lips, and he opened his mouth carefully, surprised when he tasted the tangy sweetness of apple on his tongue. He immediately sat up, reaching for the piece and taking a bite out of it, his eyes fluttering shut as the juice washed over his tongue.

He finished the slice in two bites, holding his hand out shyly for more. John grinned and gave him another slice, along with a piece of cheese. “Eat those, and then you can sleep, okay?”

Sherlock wasn't about to complain. He ate the second slice of apple, savouring the sweet taste on his tongue. The cheese followed, and then he licked his lips, thinking that he'd never had anything more delicious to eat. John handed him a glass of water next (plastic, Sherlock noticed), which he drank, until his stomach felt full. He handed the glass back to John, and then laid down, ears twitching as his looked up at John expectantly. 

John's hand went back to his hair, and he curled up a bit, purring. He scooted back, making room for John, only opening his eyes when John didn't get into bed with him. “I'm not... broken,” he said quietly. “I won't – I'll try not to – freak out.”

John looked at him for a long moment, petting over his ears. “If it makes you uncomfortable, just tell me, okay?” He gave Sherlock a moment to protest before setting the food aside and laying down next to him, on top of the covers. “Go ahead and sleep. I'm not going anywhere.”

Sherlock hesitated for just a moment, and then curled close to John, tucking his head against his shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you so much. I don't know how I'm even going to begin to repay you, I...”

“Shh. Go to sleep, Sherlock. We can talk in the morning.”

Sherlock nodded sleepily and gave a little mewling yawn against John's chest, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. Between the bath and the food and the warmth of the bed and John's body, he had no chance. He fell asleep to the comforting sound of John breathing and the hope that he wouldn't wake up to find it all a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be kind. This is my first foray into anything other than fluffy fluff that has the sole purpose of being fluffy, and I just really, really wanted to write some Cat!Sherlock. Really, I wanted to read some Cat!Sherlock, but there isn't enough of it that I can find. So!
> 
> There will be smut. Eventually. And loads of angst, and hurt/comfort, hurt/hurt, and hurt/no comfort. There will be mentions of past violence and descriptions of current violence, and well as some general darkness and depravity. (No dark!John, though. I don't like dark!John). In other words, it will earn its Explicit rating.


	4. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Lyra, nightmares; for redvalerian, explanations of the hybrids in scocity; Moriarty; progressive-thinking John; deductions.
> 
> The text within the "**" is taken, with some edits, from "A Study in Pink."

John had read an interview in a medical journal a few days before he'd found Sherlock with the man who had invented and perfected hybrid technology. He was still young, not that much older than John himself, but he'd come up with the idea when he was _seven years old_. By the time he was twelve, he had been given an honorary doctorate from the University of Cambridge, and by fourteen, the first hybrids had started to appear on the street. 

The procedure was done while the patient was still a fetus, and while John's forte wasn't genetic engineering, he understood that it had taken another two years for the man to perfect the procedure so that the hybrids didn't die in their first few months. After that, however, the market exploded. Everyone wanted a child with furry ears and a tail, or a pair of wings. 

The operation was completely customizable. There were the hybrids like Sherlock, who only had ears and a tail and the slitted pupils, and then there were those who were the size of a cat, who looked like cats in all regards, and simply kept their human intelligence. Those variations were more rare, since it was cheaper to simply buy a _cat_ , and because, four years after the procedure became commonplace, the government had ruled that hybrids were “less than human,” and therefore, did not have the same rights as people did.

The black market was the first to react. Suddenly, hybrids could be bought and sold and _owned_. In fact, the government seemed to encourage ownership of the hybrids, going as far as to give tax deductions to those who did. Soon, legitimate businesses resembling pet stores were springing up all over the UK, and then all over the world, offering up for sale hybrids who had been born and bred with the idea that they were pets.

The man who had started it all when he was seven had been asked what his thoughts were on that development, if he'd ever imagined that his technology would be used in that way. The man was thirty-four and a multimillionaire, a professor at Cambridge, and had been a household name since he was a teenager.

 _This is going to sound rather callous,_ he had responded. _Is it bad to say that I don't particularly care? Yes, I know that the activists are causing a fuss right now, but they'll quiet down. They always do._ Then he had paused, and smiled, and said, _And, anyway, my mission has been accomplished. Everyone knows the name of Professor Jim Moriarty._

There were laws that required hybrids to be collared at all times in public, much like dogs or cats, with a tag that had their Master's name and contact information on it. The punishment for a hybrid running away was severe, but a hybrid without a collar would be thrown into the market and auctioned off to the highest bidder.

John looked down at the sleeping hybrid next to him, gently pushing a lock of hair out of his face. Sherlock had been incredibly lucky that someone hadn't handed him over to the police. With no collar, and the state he had been in, the brunette would have probably been sold for less than one hundred quid. With the looks he had, he probably would have been sold to a “pleasure house operator,” or whatever the men who owned whorehouses were calling themselves now.

Sherlock stirred, whimpering in his sleep, and John stroked his hair reassuringly. He couldn't help think about Sherlock's previous Master, and what he must have done to the hybrid to... break him. Sherlock was old enough to have been part of one of the first batches of hybrids, one of the ones that were all born free, so either his parents had sold him off, or he'd been somehow coerced into the “relationship.”

Sherlock's cries grew louder, and he curled in on himself, shaking his head. “No,” he whispered. “Please, sir, no.” He gasped, his figure trembling. “I won't tell anyone, I swear, I...” 

He _screamed_ , and his back arched, and his shaking fingers clawed at the pillow, the sheets, John's chest, whatever he could reach. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, and his ears pressed flat against his head.

John didn't waste time in trying to wake him up gently. He had been there, been so far gone in a nightmare that he'd stayed asleep through people shaking him and calling his name. So he simply took Sherlock by the shoulders and raised him into a sitting position, waiting for the change in his body's orientation to wake him.

Sherlock's eyes flew open, meeting John's in a panicked stare. His fingers stopped their frantic scrabbling at his chest and instead fisted in his shirt, tightly enough to make Sherlock's knuckles go white. He stopped breathing entirely for a second or two, completely frozen. “Sherlock?” John asked quietly. “Are you here with me?”

The hybrid let out the breath he'd been holding, nodding silently. He started to lean forward, and then jerked back, and the turmoil written on his face was heartbreaking. He obviously wanted some physical comfort, but he either didn't trust John enough to seek it with him, or it had been hardwired into him that he _couldn't_ seek that comfort. 

John shifted into a cross-legged position and held out his arms a bit. “It's okay,” he said softly. “It's just a nightmare. You're safe.”

Sherlock drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, watching John warily for a long moment with sleepy eyes. “It was Victor,” he said after a long minute. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, but he was awake, and breathing. “He lost something.” Sherlock sniffed. “He told me to find it. And I did,” he said quickly, as if to assure John that he could follow instructions. “But I found something else that I wasn't supposed to.”

Sherlock sniffed again, and John reached over, getting a tissue out of the box on the nightstand. He held it out to Sherlock, who took it with a mumbled, “thank you.” He wiped his nose, and then crumpled the tissue up in his hand. “He whipped me until I couldn't scream anymore,” he whispered. “And then more, for good measure. Then he took away my collar and put me out on the street.” The long fingers of one hand came up to touch his neck, where John supposed his collar had been.

The hybrid was quiet, then, one arm curled around his knees and his other hand pressed to the side of his neck. His eyes were closed, and John had almost thought he'd gone back to sleep when he said, “I'm sorry. It's not pleasant having to deal with nightmares.”

John shook his head. “No, it's not. I know. I have them myself more often than I like to think about. I was...”

*“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John blinked. “Sorry?”

“Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock still had his eyes closed, and his head resting on his knees.

“Afghanistan,” John answered slowly. “How did you...”

Sherlock opened his eyes, biting his lip. “You don't mind if I explain?” he asked quietly.

John shook his head. “No, go for it. I'd really like to know how you figured that one out.”

A smile flitted across Sherlock's face, and he sat up. “Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But the way you immediately took my pulse and got me out of the sun – says medical. So, army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists – you've been abroad, but not sunbathing. You limp when you walk, but not when you're focused – when you were carrying me to the cab, you didn't, but when you came up the stairs with the tray, you did. You can forget about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic – wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John felt that his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't be bothered to correct it just yet. “That... that was amazing.”

Sherlock's ears twitched up, and his eyes widened. “You think so?”

John nodded vigourously. “Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite... extraordinary.”

The hybrid ducked his head a bit, and John thought he saw the beginnings of a blush creep over his cheeks. “That's not what Vic – people, usually say.”

John reached out and ruffled Sherlock's fringe. “What do people usually say?”

Sherlock glanced up. “Piss off.”*

John laughed. He couldn't help himself. He'd just heard one of the most brilliant things in his life, and the speaker was looking at him as if he was afraid John was going to be mad. He probably did think John was going to be mad, he realized, sobering up quickly. “Well, you're not going to hear that from me,” he said firmly. “That was incredible, Sherlock. Truly.”

Sherlock purred loudly, pushing his head up against John's hand. John scratched behind his ears for a minute, brushing his fingers through his messy mop of hair. He felt Sherlock lean forward, and this, time, the hybrid crawled into his lap when John held out his arms. He could feel the vibrations of Sherlock's purr all through his own body, and the warmth of Sherlock's tail as it coiled and rested on his knee. 

John just held him for a few minutes, petting him until he felt the last of the tension ease out of the hybrid's body. “Better?” he asked quietly, and Sherlock nodded against John's chest. 

“Much,” he answered. “Thank you, John.”

John patted his arm. “Of course.” He paused. “You're really good at that, aren't you? That... deducing, you just did. And finding things.”

Sherlock nodded again, looking up at John. “I'm useful. I can earn my keep.”

John shook his head. “That wasn't what I was thinking about. Your main focus is going to be on recovering. Putting on some weight.” Learning that not everyone in the world wants to hurt you, he added silently. “But later on, you might be able to make some money for yourself. You could teach people how to do that.” He glanced down at the hybrid, who was looking at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

“For myself?”

John smiled. “Yeah. I know it's not exactly a normal practice, but you're not exactly a normal hybrid, either. And if you're that smart, you're going to go crazy sitting around here all day doing nothing, so I figure... oof.”

He was cut off as Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around him, burying his face in his shoulder. Surprised, he slowly moved his arms so that he was holding the hybrid close. “You okay?”

Sherlock nodded. “I'm dreaming,” he said against John's shoulder. “I have to be. I'm going to wake up on the street or back with Victor, and you're going to disappear.”

John stroked the back of Sherlock's head, rocking him gently. “It's not a dream,” he said. “It's going to be hard for you to adjust. I know. I am _nothing_ like Victor, Sherlock. I don't even know him, and I can already tell you that. If you want to live here, things are going to be different, but I promise you that you'll be as safe and independent as possible.”

Sherlock turned his head, looking up at John. “You're an Activist?”

John considered. “Not, er, _actively_ , but yeah, I suppose. I don't like that you and your kind are treated like slaves. I don't like it at all. And I might not be marching in protests yet, but I don't see why I can't treat you well.”

Sherlock smiled, and John realized that he had said _yet_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be kind. This is my first foray into anything other than fluffy fluff that has the sole purpose of being fluffy, and I just really, really wanted to write some Cat!Sherlock. Really, I wanted to read some Cat!Sherlock, but there isn't enough of it that I can find. So!
> 
> There will be smut. Eventually. And loads of angst, and hurt/comfort, hurt/hurt, and hurt/no comfort. There will be mentions of past violence and descriptions of current violence, and well as some general darkness and depravity. (No dark!John, though. I don't like dark!John). In other words, it will earn its Explicit rating.


	5. Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast; Mycroft, for RosesRed; and perhaps the inklings of crime solving?

Breakfast was quiet. John read the morning paper, and Sherlock perched on the chair opposite him, nibbling on a piece of toast while his tail flicked slowly behind him. John had told him that they were going to get him used to food again slowly, but the toast was unappetizing and dry and bland.

Not that Sherlock was going to say anything, anything at all. John had been too kind to him, and he wasn't about to thank the man by complaining about food. He was damned lucky to have the toast to eat, and the chair to sit in, and the shirt of John's that was draped over his shoulders in a way that had all too quickly become familiar. It was soft from wear, and it smelled like the blonde, and Sherlock _knew_ that that should not be comforting, but it was. He wrapped it a bit tighter around himself, wincing slightly as it pulled at the scabs on his back.

“You all right?”

Sherlock looked up, nodding quickly. Then, a bit more slowly, since John didn't look away, “My back hurts. Not a lot. Just a bit.”

He didn't expect John to get to his feet and go to the cabinet in the kitchen. He watched him carefully, eyes going to the bottle that John took out of the cabinet. Pills. He swallowed, suddenly nervous. John wouldn't hurt him. He wouldn't drug him. John was good.

He watched the blonde walk over, took in his concerned expression as he knelt in front of Sherlock. He held up the bottle, showing it to him. “Pain meds,” he said. “Over-the-counter ones.” He turned the bottle a bit and pointed at a symbol. “Hybrid approved. They'll help with your back.”

Sherlock nodded silently, and then held out his hand. With a smile, John gave him two pills, and he swallowed them dry. Then John reached up and ruffled his hair. Sherlock closed his eyes, purring at the sensation and pressing up against the hand. John only chuckled, and was about to say something, but a knock on the door interrupted him.

Sherlock was on his feet in a moment, frantically looking for a spot to hide. He wouldn't go back to Victor. He _couldn't_. He had to hide. Panicked, he looked up at John, silently begging him not to answer the door.

“Hey, hey, it's okay.” John stepped forward and gingerly wrapped his arms around Sherlock's trembling frame. “You're safe. I promise.”

Sherlock wanted to believe him. He nodded, his fingers clutching at John's jumper until the blonde pried them off, sitting him back down in the chair. “Stay there,” he said, and then went over and opened the door.

As soon as the visitor spoke, Sherlock felt his panic disappear. It wasn't Victor, even if it was someone just as unwelcome. He made to get up, and then hesitated. John had told him to stay. For a moment, he stayed there, frozen, unable to decide, before sinking back down into the chair with a huff.

When John and the visitor came around the corner, Sherlock crossed his arms and glared. 

“Hello, brother dear. What crisis necessitated your presence?”

John blinked, obviously surprised, and looked between the two. “This is your brother.”

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock and Mycroft said and the same time.

Sherlock sighed, and Mycroft turned away from him, looking at John with a slightly pained expression. “I do apologize for Sherlock. He's never been very... easy.” He grimaced. “I do appreciate your caring for him, however. You will be fully reimbursed, and I'll take him off your hands right away.”

John blinked, and Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John held up a hand. “Hold on a moment,” he said slowly. “You want to pay me for taking Sherlock in, and then take him away? Is that correct?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. You've been quite helpful. Believe me, Mr. Watson, I am in a position to compensate you.”

John ran a hand through his hair, and then turned, looking at Sherlock. “Do you want to go home with him?” he asked, jerking his thumb in Mycroft's direction. “It's entirely up to you. You're welcome here, if you want to stay.” He glanced back at the older Holmes. “And, either way, I'm not taking your money. If you're in a position to compensate me, then you were in a position to help him before.”

Mycroft had no answer to that. Instead, he looked at Sherlock expectantly. “Come along. Mummy's worried out of her mind.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don't want to.”

John gave him a smile, and Mycroft glared, but he didn't particularly care what Mycroft was doing when John was smiling at him. The blonde looked back at Mycroft. “Well. That settles that. Sherlock wants to stay. It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Goodbye now.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, and Sherlock saw something flash in John's eyes. Something... possessive. Protective. His hand flinched a bit, in the direction of his hip, and Sherlock knew that Mycroft had seen all of that, and more. The older man smiled thinly, ducking his head. “Good day, Mr. Watson. Sherlock.” He turned, then, walking out of the room and down the stairs. It was only when the sound of the door closing wafted up the steps that John relaxed.

“You're related to /that/?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Mycroft... is cold. Yes. He's also an avian hybrid who has fought tooth and nail to assume the position he currently has. He is used to throwing his influence around to get what he wants.” Sherlock smiled a bit. “You flustered him. Oh, and next time? Take the money he offers before turning him down.”

John chuckled quietly, running a hand through his hair. “You're a schemer,” he said, pointing at Sherlock. His smiled softened a bit. “You all right?”

Sherlock nodded. “My initial fright has worn off. All that's left is residual adrenaline and the desire to make sure the doors are locked.”

John gestured at the doorway. “Be my guest,” he said. “I suppose this is your home now, as well. If locking the door makes you feel better, go for it.”

Sherlock just looked at him for a moment, and then slowly got up, padding over to the door and flipping the deadbolt. It slid into place, and he sighed, actually feeling marginally better. He looked back at John, ears twitching as he bit his lip.

“Why do you care?”

He realized, belatedly, that the question was borderline rude, but John didn't seem to mind. He considered the question, his fingers toying with the corner of the newspaper.

“Because you deserve to be cared for,” John said eventually. “You deserve to make your own choices, to be with who you want to be, and to live your life. And you deserve someone to be there for you.”

John's words weren't spoken lightly. Sherlock could hear that, could hear the truth behind them and the weight they carried. He nodded, and then slowly walked back over to the table hesitating before sinking down next to John's chair, crossing his legs and leaning his head against his thigh. The demand was clear (“pet me”) but his stance was soft. 

A moment later, John's fingers carded through his curls, brushing lightly over his ears. Sherlock allowed his eyes to close, and he leaned against John a bit more. A few minutes later, he glanced up, and John separated part of the paper and handed it down to him. With a smile, he flipped to the police reports, his eyes skimming over accounts of vandalism and petty crime, looking for something worthwhile.

John's fingers stayed in his hair, and Sherlock stayed with John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be kind. This is my first foray into anything other than fluffy fluff that has the sole purpose of being fluffy, and I just really, really wanted to write some Cat!Sherlock. Really, I wanted to read some Cat!Sherlock, but there isn't enough of it that I can find. So!
> 
> There will be smut. Eventually. And loads of angst, and hurt/comfort, hurt/hurt, and hurt/no comfort. There will be mentions of past violence and descriptions of current violence, and well as some general darkness and depravity. (No dark!John, though. I don't like dark!John). In other words, it will earn its Explicit rating.


	6. Violin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Separation anxiety; a violin, for SansMarina.

As much as he wanted to, John couldn't stay home with Sherlock forever. Sarah had given him two days, but it appeared that that was going to be the extent of her generosity. He briefly considered bringing the hybrid to the clinic with him. He considered that for exactly three seconds, and then remembered the severe anxiety that Sherlock seemed to possess when around other people.

It was justified, certainly. Sherlock hadn't had people that treated him well, so he naturally assumed that everyone was going to be cruel. It didn't exactly help, however. 

He had a few hours, though. And Sherlock was asleep with his head in his lap, purring softly. John stroked his hair while he slept, typing up a blog entry with his other hand. The hybrid had become infinitely more comfortable with John being close to him, and though that didn't extend to other people yet, the blonde figured that would come with time. Sherlock was also finally rehydrated, and it showed in the renewed sleekness of his ears and tail. The tail, which, when it wasn't twitching behind him, was curled loosely around John's wrist, holding his hand in place.

Half-an-hour later, Sherlock stirred. Instead of stretching and getting up like he normally did, however, he curled up a bit more, nuzzling against John's thigh. His tail tightened around John's wrist a bit. He said something, so quietly that John didn't understand him at first.

“What was that?”

Sherlock's ears twitched. “I said, I don't want you to leave.”

John sighed, pushing Sherlock's fringe out of his face. “I know. I won't be gone that long, though. Just a few hours. You could probably nap through it, if you wanted.”

Sherlock said nothing for a long minute, seemingly content to lay against John's leg. The blonde went back to his blog entry, but a minute or two later, Sherlock huffed against his knee. “Is that what you want me to do while you're gone?” he asked quietly. 

John paused his typing, looking down at the hybrid. “I want you to do what you want, within reason.” He set his laptop aside and patted Sherlock's back. “Come up here.”

Sherlock shifted, sitting up and leaning against John's side instead. John looped his arm around the hybrid's shoulders, rubbing his thumb lightly against his arm. “Tell me what you like to do,” he said. “I have some medical books up in my room, and there's the telly. I'm guessing you're interested in other things, though.”

The hybrid was quiet for a long time, and his breathing was even enough that John thought he'd gone back to sleep. “I play the violin,” he said eventually, his voice hesitant. “And I like to read.” He nudged his head against John's shoulder, his purr soft and almost nonexistent. “Could you... could you resume that thing you were doing with my hair?”

John slipped his hand up into the dark curls and felt Sherlock relax a bit. “And I like to solve problems,” he said. “But only interesting ones. Your history was an interesting one. The things Victor had for me to do were...” The hybrid hesitated, and John scratched his ears.

“Go on.”

“Boring,” Sherlock finished. “They were dull. Mundane.” John couldn't help but notice the way Sherlock glanced around, as if he half-expected Victor to come 'round the corner. “He'd misplace his tie pin, or one of his socks, or something like that.” The brunette sighed. “See? Boring.”

John hummed his agreement. “I see.” He reached into his pocket and took out a mobile phone much like his own, setting it down on the table. “Well, for today, do you think you can manage with the books here and the telly and Mrs. Hudson? She might have a few, ah, _mundane_ jobs for you to do.”

Sherlock nodded immediately. “Of course. Just don't be gone too long,” he said quickly, and then caught himself, looking up at John. “Please?”

The pleading tone in Sherlock's voice came through loud and clear. John leaned down, pressing a soft kiss in between the silky black ears on top of the hybrid's head. “I'll be back by five,” he said, ruffling his hair. “Give or take a few minutes.” He pointed at the mobile phone, picking it up and handing it to Sherlock. “I've put my number in there. If you need anything, or even if you just want to talk, you can text me.”

Sherlock took the phone and tucked it against his chest, nodding. After a moment, he glanced up hesitantly. “And... I'll be safe here?”

“No one is going to break down the front door,” John answered. “And I told Mrs. Hudson to not let any strangers in. You'll be safe.” He twirled a few strands of Sherlock's hair around his fingers. “You okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

*

The first text came about ten minutes after John left. His phone buzzed, and he looked down at it, somewhat surprised it had taken that long.

_You said I could text if I just wanted to talk? -SH_

_Yeah, of course. Just don't be offended if it takes me a bit to answer._

_No, of course. -SH_

_I just wanted to know if I could get something to eat. Meant to ask you before you left. -SH_

_I can't seem to think entirely straight when you're petting me. -SH_

_Of course you can get something to eat. You never need to ask permission for that._

_Just don't leave the flat, all right? I don't want you outside without me quite yet._

_I'll stay indoors. -SH_

_Your landlady is quite nice. -SH_

_She's a sweetheart. Did she feed you?_

_She determined that I needed assistance after I burned myself. -SH_

_She makes lovely cinnamon rolls. -SH_

_Are you all right?_

_Yes. My hand just slipped. -SH_

_Oh._

_Why do you do that thing?_

_What thing? -SH_

_The signature? -SH_

_Yeah. That._

_Just in case anything were to happen. -SH_

_You know. To me. I could text you something normal, and not sign it, and you'd know something was wrong. -SH_

_Do things that would require that usually happen to you?_

_If anything ever happened with Victor... -SH_

_Right. Of course._

_Do you think he would do something like that?_

_I mean, something that would require my intervention._

_It's possible. -SH_

_How possible?_

_67% possible. -SH_

_That's... exact._

_I tend to be precise in the calculations that are important. -SH_

_Yeah. Um, good. Yeah, that works. -JW_

_Same code for you? -SH_

_Might as well, yeah? -JW_

John didn't get a text back, and when he left the clinic, he pocketed his phone, toying with an idea he'd been entertaining all day. Sherlock had said he played the violin, and John knew a man who sold discounted musical instruments. It was worth a shot, anyway. If the hybrid didn't like it, then John could always take it back. 

The store required him to silence his mobile, so he shot Sherlock off a quick text telling him he'd be a bit late, and then turned it off. 

The transaction took longer than expected, but at the end of it, John had a beautiful, if not slightly worn violin in a case, as well as its bow. He caught a cab, and once inside, he turned his phone back on. There were a series of texts from Sherlock, all about ten minutes apart.

_All right. -SH_

_How long is a bit late? -SH_

_John? -SH_

_Your landlady says that you're almost never out past six. -SH_

_Are you all right? -SH_

_You're coming back, aren't you? -SH_

_Please? -SH_

Quickly, John texted back an affirmative, hoping that Sherlock hadn't gotten himself too worked up in John's absence. The cab dropped him off a few minutes later, and he went up the steps, opening the door and walking inside. 

The hybrid was curled up in the corner, his ears flat against his head. He looked up when he heard John come in, and the doctor could see the tears stains on his face. “Sherlock,” he said quietly, setting down the violin case and going over to him. “Sherlock, it's all right. I just said I was going to be late, I didn't mean... oof.”

His sentence was cut off as Sherlock lunged forward, wrapping his arms around John's waist. The hybrid pressed his face against John's jumper, his body shaking as he cried quietly. John immediately brought his arms up, gently putting them around the brunette. “I t-thought you'd l-left,” he whispered brokenly. “I d-didn't know what I'd d-done wrong, I didn't d-do anything, I p-promise, I...”

“Hush,” John said quietly. “I know, Sherlock. I know. I should have let you know how late I was going to be. I'm sorry.”

Sherlock nodded dumbly, his fingers clenched in John's shirt under his jumper. They stayed like that for a long time, the hybrid clutching at John as if afraid that he'd disappear, and John just holding on to Sherlock, stroking his hair and murmuring assurances in his ear.

The violin was entirely forgotten until the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be kind. This is my first foray into anything other than fluffy fluff that has the sole purpose of being fluffy, and I just really, really wanted to write some Cat!Sherlock. Really, I wanted to read some Cat!Sherlock, but there isn't enough of it that I can find. So!
> 
> There will be smut. Eventually. And loads of angst, and hurt/comfort, hurt/hurt, and hurt/no comfort. There will be mentions of past violence and descriptions of current violence, and well as some general darkness and depravity. (No dark!John, though. I don't like dark!John). In other words, it will earn its Explicit rating.


	7. Victor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is bored; Victor.

The violin kept Sherlock satisfactorily occupied for four days. He tuned it, and cleaned it, and used John's computer to download a few of the longer pieces that he liked to play that he didn't have entirely memorized. The first time John saw the sheet music (it had been something by Vivaldi) his eyes had widened right before he suggested something a bit easier. Sherlock had enjoyed the way his jaw had gone slack when the hybrid started playing.

Sherlock discovered very quickly that John liked to hear him play. The man spent hours over the weekend listening to him, watching him, _praising_ him to the point that Sherlock realized he would have gladly sank to his knees for him. Of course, he didn't, because John had made it very clear that he didn't expect that of Sherlock.

On Monday, though, when John went back to work, Sherlock got bored. He didn't realize until then how used he had gotten to John's presence, or how quickly. The violin kept him busy for less than an hour, and John's medical books for even less time. 

_I've got nothing to do. -SH_

_Bored with the violin already? -JW_

_I played it for a while. And read your books. -SH_

_You could try the telly. -JW_

He did. Honestly, he did. He flipped through every channel, twice, pausing momentarily on the National Geographic network before changing that, too. He was feeling restless, something he hadn't had the _energy_ to feel in a long time. After deciding the telly wasn't worth it, he padded into the kitchen to look for something to eat. His appetite had come back, almost full force, and John had told him that he might even start growing again.

He poured himself a bowl of cereal and went to the table, part of him still surprised that he could just _do_ that. That he could simply get food when he was hungry, and not worry about having to earn it or pay it back. There were still a lot of things he was getting used to. He had nightmares over the weekend, but he realized that John did, too, and he had already gotten used to waking up with the blonde holding his shoulders, or having to wake John up in the same way. He had gotten _more_ used to the hug that John tended to need afterward, and he had learned the words that made him calm down.

_It's just a dream, John. You're here. You're safe._

_Breathe, John. Eyes on me._

It made an unfamiliar feeling curl in his chest, knowing that he was the one John had to turn to. It was the same feeling that he felt when John relaxed after a nightmare and thanked him and apologized for waking him up. He didn't know quite what it was, but he decided that he liked it.

After he finished eating, he was still bored, and he texted John, telling him as much.

_You need something to do, don't you? -JW_

_Desperately. -SH_

_I'd suggest something, but I think you might get offended. -JW_

_I am far beyond being offended. -SH_

_Well, all right. Mrs. Hudson was saying she needed some help with a few things. Household chores and such. -JW_

_And she would accept my assistance? -SH_

_She likes you. -JW_

Sherlock considered the offer for a minute or two before pocketing his phone and making his way downstairs slowly. He barely had time to explain to John's landlady why he was there before she was putting him to work. He helped her sort clothes to wash and mend, listening to her chatter about John and her friends and the state of the flat.

The way she spoke was fond, though, and Sherlock found himself smiling and relaxing in her presence. She was kind, and naturally so, much like the way John was. So he helped her for as long as she needed it, relaxing enough to pounce on a button when it rolled away from the table. She laughed and rubbed his ears, and Sherlock found himself blushing lightly.

Sherlock went back upstairs when he realized John was going to be home soon, deciding to put on a pot of tea. He heard the door open a few minutes later, but it wasn't John's gait he heard coming up the stairs. When he heard Mrs. Hudson's voice raised into a shout, he realized exactly what was happening. 

Victor walked in a moment after Sherlock sent a panicked text to John. 

Sherlock barely had time to brace himself before Victor's fist caught the side of his head and he went sprawling. Black spots danced in front of his eyes as he scrambled away from him, not realizing that he was whimpering until Victor hissed at him to shut up.

“I left you there to _die_ ,” he said, walking toward Sherlock. “Can't you do that one thing right? Or is that too much to ask from something as completely _useless_ as you are?”

Sherlock didn't answer. He knew from experience that talking usually made these sorts of things worse, and he knew already that it was going to be bad. He watched, flinching when Victor spat on him and undid his belt buckle. 

“What did you tell him, hmm? What did you promise him, Sherlock? Did you offer up your body like a disgusting little whore?” Victor pulled the belt out of the loops, wrapping half of it around his hand. “God knows that's the only thing anyone could want with you.”

When the flat of the belt came down across his back, Sherlock cried out. He tried to squirm away, but Victor stepped on the back of his hand, hard, and held him there, bringing the belt down again. “You thought you could just leave like that?” he asked, his voice rising in volume. “Did you think you'd find someone _better_ than me?” The belt came down against, and this time, the buckle broke the skin of Sherlock's back. He felt blood trickle from the wound, but all he could do was curl up and wait for Victor's arm to tire.

“You don't deserve this, Sherlock. You worthless” strike “weak” strike “stupid little bitch.” Sherlock sucked in a breath as Victor leaned forward, putting more weight on his hand. He looked at his watch, and then he smiled, and Sherlock thought it was the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen. “Well, it looks like our time is up for today. That's a shame. I was really looking forward to getting a taste of whatever it is you do for him.” He scraped the prong of the buckled down Sherlock's back, and then straightened, turning on his heel and walking back down the stairs as suddenly as he had come.

Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson on the phone with the police, but it was distant. He curled up on his side, holding his injured hand against his chest as he waited to pass out from the pain. Victor's words repeated in his head, and he felt tears that he couldn't control spilling down his cheeks. He was right, of course. Victor was always right. He didn't deserve this, John and his kindness and everything else. He was worthless, and the only person who was ever really going to put up with him was Victor and now even Victor was mad and...

When John ran up the stairs not two minutes later, Sherlock was trembling. The doctor sank to the ground and looked over the injuries that he could see, his hands gentle on Sherlock's shoulders. “Sherlock,” he murmured, and the hybrid opened his eyes at the ragged quality of the man's voice. “God. I am so sorry. Can you move?”

Sherlock bit back a whimper and nodded, staying curled in on himself as he shifted into a sitting position. He was supremely glad that Victor had avoided his ribs, because ribs took weeks to heal properly. He sniffed and tried to give John a reassuring smile. “I'm all right.”

“Don't.” John held out his hand, and Sherlock eyed it for a moment before carefully setting his own hurt one inside the doctor's, wincing. “Don't do that. You're not all right, and you don't have to pretend to be for my sake.”

He met Sherlock's eyes, and he was surprised to see worry there. John was worried about him. He nodded slowly, sniffing quietly. “Hurts.”

“I know, love. I know.” John leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's forehead. “We're going to take you to the clinic and get your hand and your back looked at, all right?”

Not having the energy to argue, Sherlock simply nodded. He leaned against John when the man helped him to his feet, muffling his whimpers in John's jumper. “John, it was Victor. He said -”

“I know. Mrs. Hudson told me.” John held onto Sherlock's uninjured hand as he helped him down the stairs. “He said horrible, untrue things. He was trying to hurt you, Sherlock, in any way he could.”

 _He succeeded_ , Sherlock thought bitterly, but John squeezed his hand, and told him that it wasn't his fault, that he didn't deserve to be treated like that, and all it did was make the hybrid wonder what he did deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long! My friend and I are behind in writing chapters for "England Would Fall" and... yeah. Anyway, here you go.
> 
> By the way, I take prompts! If you go to my profile page, you can see the fandoms I'll write for and send me a message.


	8. Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor's apology, for LadyGrey; Sherlock goes back

Sherlock hated the hospital; that much was obvious. He was tense, and his ears were laying flat on his head, and it was all John could do to get him to let the nurses sew up one of the worse cuts on the hybrid's back. Sherlock clung to him the entire time, whimpering and keeping his face buried in the crook of John's neck.

When the nurses had left, John managed to get Sherlock to swallow some painkillers. The hybrid was quiet, other than the little whines he gave whenever John moved, but the way he clutched at John's jumper made it obvious that whatever the trembling man in his arms was feeling, it wasn't anywhere near good.

They let John take Sherlock home as soon as the stitches were set. The hybrid didn't say anything except for a few murmured thank yous and the occasional soft sigh or whimper, but it didn't bother John too much. Sherlock was dealing with his trauma however he needed to, and all John could do was take care of his body and be there to talk when Sherlock decided he wanted to.

By that evening, Sherlock still wasn't speaking, but he had silently requested for John to sit with him on the sofa and pet him, which John considered a step in the right direction. The hybrid ended up sprawled over John's lap, with his head pillowed against his thigh, watching Bradley James and Colin Morgan reenact Arthurian legends on the telly. At some point, Sherlock huffed and closed his eyes.

“Inaccurate.”

“Oh?” was the only thing John could think to say.

“Look at his scarf. It's ridiculous. You can see the machine stitching on it. Honestly, they could have tried a little harder to make it look more natural to that time period.”

John brushed his fingers lightly over the tips of Sherlock's ears. “I'm sorry it offends you,” he said dryly. His fingers skimmed down to Sherlock's bandaged hand, touching it lightly before going back to stroking his dark curls. “You want some dinner?”

Sherlock shrugged, curling his arms around John's thigh. “Don't want to move,” he said quietly. “Hurts.”

John paused. “Then we won't move,” he said softly. 

*

The police didn't (or wouldn't) do anything. The only thing they were willing to charge Victor with was trespassing, but they only had the testimony of an old woman and a hybrid. They did a preliminary investigation, but that was it. 

He went back to work the next day, only because he had to. Sherlock assured him that he was all right, but the hybrid did text him throughout the day. 

_I found I can make a decent loaf of banana bread. -SH_

_Baking seems a little mundane for you. -JW_

_It is more like basic chemistry. -SH_

_If I find chemicals mixed in with the pecans... -JW_

_Only the necessary ones, John. I promise. -SH_

When John got off his shift, he stopped by the Chinese place on the corner, and he texted Sherlock to ask what he wanted. It was still light outside, and people were still going about their normal activities. John saw a few hybrids standing or kneeling close to their masters, and he couldn't help but wonder what he would do if Sherlock wanted to leave the house with him. He certainly wasn't going to make the hybrid kneel next to him while he ate noodles. 

_A package arrived. -SH_

_Oh? I didn't order anything. -JW_

_Do you want me to open it? -SH_

_Whose name is on it? -JW_

An answer didn't come for a long time, and by the time it did, John was already in the cab on the way back to 221B Baker Street.

_Mine. -SH_

_What? -JW_

_It has my name on it. -SH_

_Well, then of course you can open it. -JW_

_It's from Victor._

The lack of signature on the last text bothered John, as well as the content of the text itself.

_You don't have to open it. I'll be home with dinner in a few. -JW_

_No, it's fine. It's... he sent me a present. -SH_

_A present. -JW_

_He sent me a collar. -SH_

John pocketed his phone as he got out of the cab, making his way up to the flat as quickly as he could. His limp had vanished again, but he didn't noticed, too focused on the information that Sherlock had given him. Victor was exhibiting the classic abusive cycle, and if John ever saw him he was going strangle the guy because Sherlock didn't deserve to...

“Sherlock?”

The hybrid looked up from where he was sitting on the ground. He was holding a collar, sleek and black and sporting a silver D-ring on the back. He hadn't put it on – he hadn't even undone the clasp. He was just looking at it, turning it over in his hands, and John didn't think he'd ever seen anyone look so torn.

“You don't have to wear it.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I know. I just...” He trailed off, and John sighed, sitting down next to him. “I want to,” he finished. “I know that's bad. It definitely can't be good.” The hybrid turned to face John, butting his head up against his shoulder.

John gladly began stroking his hair, reassured when Sherlock started purring. “You want someone to want you,” he said quietly. “That's not bad. That's pretty normal, for everyone.”

Sherlock shrugged, leaning against John. “I shouldn't want anyone. Not after...”

“You 'shouldn't' want anything. Everyone's different, Sherlock.” John scratched lightly at the hair behind Sherlock's ears, glancing down at the hybrid. “If you want, we can go shopping tomorrow and pick you out a collar. One you like, and one that's not from someone who hurts you.”

Nodding after a long moment, Sherlock tucked himself more firmly against John's side, turning himself into the doctor's body heat. “I'd like that,” he said eventually. “If you... if you don't mind.”

“Of course I don't mind.”

*

John wasn't surprised, when, the next morning, he woke up and Sherlock was gone. The shiny black collar was gone as well, and the phone he had given the hybrid was laying on the nightstand. The screen was flashing with a message that Sherlock had sent to his own phone, and by the time John had processed it, he was already dressed and strapping his gun to his side. 

_I am so sorry, John. You've been so good to me. But that's part of why I can't stay. You're far too good. I'm only going to cause you trouble. If you haven't already guessed, I've gone back to Victor. I know you'll be disappointed, and I am truly sorry. -SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo....
> 
> It's been while. Hi guys. This chapter has been late in coming for a variety of reasons, but here it is, for any of you still interested in my little story.


	9. Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor.

Victor reacted much like Sherlock thought he would. He made the hybrid crawl over the threshold of their home, and then had him kneel next to the sofa, knees spread, while he finished watching whatever show was on the telly. He made Sherlock hold his new collar in his teeth, but the hybrid didn't mind so much. He deserved to be punished, a little, for going to live with someone when his Master had left him on the street. He had avoided his punishment then, so he would accept it now, and hope that Victor got tired of ignoring him before Sherlock got tired of kneeling.

He also hoped, with all his heart, that John would stay away. He had caused the kind man far too much trouble already, and he didn't think he'd ever be able to forgive himself if John got hurt.

It was dark outside by the time Victor allowed Sherlock to rise. The hybrid's knees were bruised and tender, and he couldn't help but gasp quietly when his master squeezed each joint, shaking his head. “You've gone soft,” he said, disapprovingly. “I let you out of my sight for a few days, and you forget your training completely? Pathetic.”

Sherlock let out a low whine around the collar that was still in his mouth, ducking his head in shame. He heard Victor let out a fed-up huff of breath, and then the man's hand was pushing down on his shoulder, until Sherlock was on his hands and knees. He wined at the pain from kneeling again, and very nearly whimpered when Victor crossed his ankles and rested his heels on the hybrid's back, but he stayed silent, not wanting to risk further punishment.

He had to prove to Victor that he was still a good pet. His master still wanted him, for whatever reason, and Sherlock needed to prove that he was worthy of that. So, he stayed on his hands and his knees, and kept his collar pressed between his teeth, while Victor continued watching the telly. His heels dug sharply into the hybrid's back, and after a few minutes, Sherlock knew that they were going to leave a bruise.

He was much more relieved than he should have been when the doorbell rang.

Victor swore under his breath, but he took his feet off Sherlock's back, pushing the hybrid on his back as he got to his feet. Sherlock curled up obediently, facing the door, as Victor walked into the entry and turned the knob. 

Part of him knew who was going to be on the other side of the door, and he was tempted to turn over so that he couldn't see, so that John wouldn't see him, like this, but he couldn't. He had to prove to Victor that he could obey, so he stayed, keeping the collar between his teeth and his eyes on the ground.

He felt more than heard John's sharp intake of breath, and shame curled in the hybrid's chest. John was too good for this. He shouldn't still be involved. It was Sherlock's fault that he was standing there, in the doorway, looking disappointed and hurt and…and so caring that it made the hybrid's ears lie flat on his head and his tail curl up at his side. He wasn't hyperventilating quite yet, but he was close, and Victor hadn't even noticed.

John had, however, and he was looking at Sherlock with concern written all over his features. He made to step forward, but Victor blocked his path, bracing one hand on the doorframe in front of the other human. “And you are?”

“Watson. John Watson. Your... Sherlock stayed with me for a few days after I found him on the street.”

Victor leered, glancing back at Sherlock. “Right. I feel like I should thank you for keeping an eye on him. He tends to get into the worst kinds of trouble.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I hope you at least took advantage of his talents. I can't really afford to repay you.”

The disgust was rolling off John in waves. Sherlock curled up a bit tighter, biting down on the collar with small fangs as he tried to disappear, tried to keep himself out of John's sight. “That's not what I'm here about, actually.” He looked past Victor, and at Sherlock, his eyes kind. “I wanted to check on Sherlock. Make sure he was all right. He was in pretty bad shape when I picked him up.”

Victor shrugged. “I don't know what happened to him while he was taking his punishment. If someone was a little rough with him, he deserved it. He won't misbehave again for a while.”

John looked as if he were looking for an excuse to stay. “Can I suggest something? Maybe your next... punishment could be a little less drastic. He almost died.”

“But he didn't.”

John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “No, he didn't, but only because I got him off the street and made sure he ate and drank and slept. Be good to him, all right? He's smart, and he's good. He tries. And he's very obedient if you treat him well.”

Scoffing, Victor shook his head. “Whatever you say, soldier boy. You've obviously never had a pet before. You can't be nice to them, or they get too comfortable. I think I know what I'm doing, thanks.”

John still looked unsure, but he took a step back. “He's always welcome to come visit,” he said thinly, giving Victor an obviously fake smile. “Have a good day, Mr. Trevor. And try to avoid breaking into people's flats in the future. It leaves nasty fingerprints and eyewitness and everything.” He nodded, and then glanced at Sherlock, before turning and walking away.

Sherlock was prepared for the door slamming shut, and the hard, pointed-toe kick that caught him in the ribs. He rolled with the impact, the collar falling from his mouth as he gasped for air, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the carpet as he struggled to right himself.

“Well, that was _enlightening_ ,” Victor spat. “Did you go crying to the first person who smiled at you? God, you're more of a whore than I thought. Is that all it takes? A sympathetic look and some put-on concern?” He kicked Sherlock again, and the hybrid cried out, curling in on himself to protect his ribs. 

“What did you do for him, hmm? He seems... vanilla. Did you just spread your legs and thank him for saving you?” Another kick. “Get on your knees because he fed you?” Another kick. “If I didn't know any better, I'd think you didn't appreciate everything I've done for you, you useless waste of space.”

Sherlock whimpered, tears wetting his face. Victor bent, hauling Sherlock up by the collar and forcing him to his knees. “Sit still,” he hissed, and then cinched the collar around the hybrid's neck. It was too tight, restricting his breathing and making his pulse beat hard under it. 

“Open.”

*  
Later, when Sherlock's throat was raw, and there were bruises forming on his hip and sides, and Victor was passed out in bed, Sherlock curled up in the pet bed and cried silently, trying to make himself as small as possible. Everything hurt, again, and he couldn't help but think about John.

He hadn't hurt with John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be kind. This is my first foray into anything other than fluffy fluff that has the sole purpose of being fluffy, and I just really, really wanted to write some Cat!Sherlock. Really, I wanted to read some Cat!Sherlock, but there isn't enough of it that I can find. So!
> 
> There will be smut. Eventually. And loads of angst, and hurt/comfort, hurt/hurt, and hurt/no comfort. There will be mentions of past violence and descriptions of current violence, and well as some general darkness and depravity. (No dark!John, though. I don't like dark!John). In other words, it will earn its Explicit rating.
> 
> Also, please send some suggestions of what you want to see my way. I have an idea of where the plot is going, but I am _more_ than happy to include anything you guys want to see. Really. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside when someone requests something that I can fulfill.


	10. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John covers for one of Sherlock's mistakes, for Abacura and Lena; Lestrade, for AstroYuki.

The flat was empty.

John didn't realize quite how used he had gotten to Sherlock just _being_ there until the hybrid was gone. More than once, he caught himself speaking aloud, expecting Sherlock to answer or purr or butt up against his thigh, asking to be petted. He'd gone to the police, but they had told him he couldn't legally do anything. Sherlock was Victor's, and as long as Sherlock didn't die, Victor was within his rights to treat the hybrid however he wanted. 

Three days later, John was in the flat, scrolling idly through channels as he waited for ten o'clock to roll around so he could go into the clinic. He heard the door open downstairs, and then he heard Mrs. Hudson scream.

He was on his feet before he realized what he was doing, running down the stairs without a trace of a limp. He saw Mrs. Hudson first, standing in the doorway with her hand over her mouth, braced against the doorframe. And, then, lying on the porch, he saw Sherlock.

He was worse than when John had met him. His face was bloody, covered in cuts and splatters of blood and God knew what else. One of his eyes was swelled shut, and his nose was definitely broken, blood from it still streaming down his cheek. His ears twitched when he saw John. “J-John, I...”

“Shh, shh.” John knelt, gently gathering Sherlock into his arms. The hybrid whimpered, curling against John's chest, and the blonde was reminded of when he'd first met the brunet. “It's all right, little one. Just breathe for me, okay? You're going to be just fine, Sherlock.”

He carried Sherlock out to the sitting room, where he tried to lay the hybrid down on the sofa so he could get a good look at him and try to figure out where the blood was coming from. Sherlock, however, wouldn't release his shirt. He was still whimpering, too, and John could pick out broken apologies and pleas for John to forgive him. The doctor ended up sitting down with Sherlock in his lap, ghosting his fingers over his hair in search for the source of blood.

He found it on the side of the hybrid's head. It wasn't deep or dangerous, nothing more than a scratch, really, but head wounds always bled more than they should have. He had begun to scab over by the time Sherlock arrived at 221B, so John simply made note of it, his first priority to take care of once Sherlock had calmed down.

“Hey, there,” he said softly, gently untangling Sherlock's hair with his fingers. “You're doing fine. You're safe, Sherlock. You're safe here. You know that. You're always safe here.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes fixed on John's face. He laid there in silence for a few minutes, his fingers clenched in John's jumper, until finally, finally, he relaxed a little. His eyes went wide and scared, though, and a small whine escaped his throat.”

“I hurt him.”

John was about to correct him, to tell him that _no_ , Victor had been the one to hurt him, not the other way around, but then Sherlock kept talking.

“He was hitting me, John. And kicking me. I didn't know what to do, I was scared, and he wouldn't _stop_ , and I thought about you and how good you were to me and I _pushed_ him, John. He fell. He...” Sherlock's breath hitched, and he buried his face in John's shirt, sobbing almost silently. 

Oh. John gathered Sherlock up close, holding him while he soaked the doctor's shirt. A moment later, he apologized softly, standing up and guiding Sherlock's legs around his waist. “Just hold onto me, okay? I need you to trust me right now. We have to go back there, but I won't let Victor take you back. I promise you, Sherlock. I won't let him.”

Sherlock whimpered, but he nodded, wrapping his arms around John's neck. “Please,” he whispered, and John just patted his back softly, comforting the hybrid best he could while he hailed a cab and covered Sherlock's bloody form with his jacket.

His plan wasn't perfect. But it was sure as hell going to work.

*

John set Sherlock down just outside the door to Victor's flat. He could hear the man moving around inside, cursing and throwing things against the wall. Sherlock flinched at every noise, and John had the desperate urge to just _leave_ and take Sherlock with him, and to forget about Victor completely.

And then he saw the hybrid wipe blood away from his nose, and he steeled himself.

The door was open, so he simply pushed on it, walking inside. Victor looked up, his expression going dark as soon as he saw John. When he noticed the hybrid behind him, however, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. 

“You are going to fucking _pay_ for that, you little shit.”

Sherlock whimpered, and John stepped in between them. “Leave him be,” he said. “You've done enough damage. Just let him go.”

Victor's laugh was only slightly deranged. “Let him go? Go where? Back home with you? Aww, well isn't that just adorable. Knight in shining armour rescues the slut of a princess.” He raised his middle finger at John. “Get out of my way.”

“No.”

Victor threw the first punch, and John made sure it caught him in the mouth, splitting his lip and spilling blood onto Victor's hand. He made to step back, and Victor followed, but John brought his knee up and caught the bastard in the groin at the same time that he shoved him back against the wall, hard. Victor's head hit it, and he slumped, limp, to the ground.

John wiped his mouth before shoving his hand into his pocket, pulling out his mobile. He let himself collapse onto the sofa as he punched in the number for emergency services. “Come here,” he said, patting the sofa next to him so that Sherlock would stop standing there, looking lost. 

When the operator picked up, he breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank god. I need an ambulance, now.”

*

Sherlock was still trembling next to him when the police arrived, and John had propped Victor's head up with a pillow. Just for appearances, of course. And he'd looked suitably distraught when the head officer, some older bloke with a French last name, sat him down and offered him a nod.

“Military?”

John nodded, running a hand through his hair. He winced, then, letting out a sigh. “I don't... things like this don't happen to me, Officer.”

“Lestrade.”

“Lestrade.” John looked down at his hands in his lap as the paramedics loaded Victor onto a stretcher. Lestrade was the only officer who stayed behind, the others having gone with Victor in order to collect samples of John's blood from his hand. “I'm not _violent_ , I don't...”

The silver-haired man glanced around, as if checking to make sure they were alone. “Listen, Captain Watson. I'm sure you've got a good cover story all worked out.”

John's blood ran cold.

“But here's the deal. I know him.” Lestrade pointed at Sherlock, who looked up, wide-eyed. “And, more importantly, I know his brother. And I know the situation. For Christ's sake, I'm a _homicide_ detective. I don't do assaults. But when someone who holds a 'minor position in the British government' tells you to check out some bloke punching out another, by God, you move your arse.”

Still unsure of what exactly was going on, John watched Lestrade carefully. “I don't understand.”

Lestrade sighed. “Long story short, you won't be charged. With anything. Sherlock's official ownership is being transferred to you as we speak. And I believe Mycroft is arranging for Victor to disappear.” The man stood, brushing off his pants. 

“You're with him.”

John's head whipped around to look at Sherlock, surprised he'd spoken. The hybrid was looking at Lestrade, though, his head cocked slightly to the side. “Hm. I suppose that makes sense. It helps having a body in the local police force.”

Lestrade stiffened. “A relationship is not something you decide to have based on convenience.”

Sherlock chuckled, quieting only slightly when John gave him a look. “Then you don't know my brother very well, Detective Inspector. He does everything out of convenience.”

“Sherlock,” John said, just this side of sharp. “That's enough. 

The hybrid seemed to ignore him. “What is the price for my brother's generosity, then?” he asked, slowly pushing himself to his feet. “Am I to return home, now, so he can keep an eye on me? Am I to go back to have every decision made for me by someone who professes to care, but simply doesn't want to deal with the problem of having me somewhere else? No!” Sherlock's voice was hysterical at this point, and he had pushed himself into the corner, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. “I won't. I won't go back home. John, please, you said you'd take me back to the flat, _please_ John, I can't, I can't, I...”

John pushed himself off the sofa, padding his way over to Sherlock. The hybrid was trembling, his eyes wide and scared, and he was still covered in his own blood and the remnants of Victor's release. “Hey,” John said quietly, gently touching Sherlock's arm. “No one is going to make you do anything. Not me, not Lestrade, and not your brother. No one. We're not even going to talk about it right now, all right? Right now, you and I are going to go home and get you cleaned up and in bed. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded dumbly, and John reached out, ruffling his hair gently. “All right.” He put his arm around the hybrid's shoulders, nodding at the officer. “Thank you. Please send my regards to Mycroft. Sherlock's as well.”

Lestrade just laughed quietly, but he sobered rather quickly. “Take care of him,” he said, nodding at Sherlock. “Kid's been through enough. He needs someone stable. And I'm sure you understand what will happen to you if you ever hurt him.”

“I won't.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, at least Sherlock's away from Victor now. The next chapter is going to be purely hurt/LOTS OF COMFORT fluff, and it will go up sometime before the end of the year. I have finals over the next three days, and then blessed break, so I will definitely update this more frequently.


	11. Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares; Sherlock's history with Victor; spooning, for Lady_MacPhisto; hurt/comfort.

Sherlock couldn't find the desire to speak at all. The ride back to John's flat was silent and stiff, with Sherlock doing his best to stay curled up on the far side of the cab, as far away from John as he could get. He already hated himself for causing John more trouble, and hated the fact that he had avoided going back to Mycroft even more. It was this vicious circle, and he kept going over it in his head, trying to figure out a scenario where he wasn't inconveniencing John and he wasn't under the thumb of his brother and it wasn't _possible_ and it was frustrating because he needed that scenario because living with Myroft wasn't an option, and continuing to rely on John wasn't, either, and...

“Sherlock?”

John's voice was calm, and it broke through Sherlock's thoughts quite efficiently. He turned his head slightly to look at the doctor over his shoulder, taking in the man's worried look. “I'm fine.”

His ears twitched as John reached out, but the man only brushed his hair to the side, carefully examining the wound there. “We need to get that cleaned up. I don't think you'll need stitches, but definitely some Neosporin and some sleep. You look exhausted.”

“I'm fine,” Sherlock repeated stubbornly, curling up a little more. “If you contact my brother, I am sure he will reimburse you for any expenses you incur while caring for me.”

John shrugged. “Don't worry about it. I'm not worried about the money. I'm just worried about you.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to repeat the fact that he was _fine_. “I'm not concussed,” he said instead, his ears falling flat against his head again, doing his best not to flinch away when John gently touched the wound. 

“What are you thinking about, Sherlock?”

John's words weren't what Sherlock expected at all. He expected some sort of comforting nothing, a 'it's going to be all right' or 'you'll never have to see him again' but it seemed that John had figured out that those things weren't going to help him. He shrugged, relaxing slightly when John's hand slid to the nape of his neck. It rested there, warm and steadying, unfamiliar in its comforting weight and all too familiar at the same time.

“Lestrade is having your things sent over to the flat. We can go through them later and decide what you want to keep.”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said sharply, his body tensing as he curled up a bit tighter, as if to hide from the idea of the things Victor bought for him going to John's flat. “I don't want any of it. They can burn them for all I care.”

John's fingers began gently rubbing at his neck. “We can have that arranged,” he said, and then paused, his fingers stilling. “Sherlock,” he continued a moment later. “Listen. If you don't want to stay at the flat with me, we can arrange something else. Something that doesn't involve Mycroft, or anyone else. I just want to make sure you're okay before you go off on your own. You took a hit to the head, and you're still pretty malnourished, but you can leave whenever you want.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, turning to look at John more fully. “You don't mean that.”

“I don't?” John countered. “I don't want to make you stay here, Sherlock. I'm not... like that.”

The hybrid watched him for a few moments, his eyes sharp and calculating. “Why?” he asked, his voice soft. “You don't owe me anything. And you own me now. Legally. I am yours.”

John winced. “I'm not happy about that. I don't think you should be owned. But the fact is that, yes, the papers say you're mine. Until that changes, I'm going to take care of you however I can. And if you want to live somewhere else, I am not going to stop you. Ever.”

The doctor was telling the truth, that much Sherlock could tell. His words were earnest, but calm at the same time. Assuring, if Sherlock was being honest. John was assuring him of his intentions, and Sherlock was believing every word.

“I want to stay.”

John smiled. “Then you're more than welcome to. And if you change your mind, we'll work something out.”

It wasn't fair, Sherlock decided. It wasn't fair that John was so... so caring. So considerate. So bloody _okay_ with everything. He was so unlike Victor in almost every way possible, and for the first time in a long time, Sherlock found himself unsure of how to react. 

His actions were decided for him when the cab stopped in front of John's flat. The doctor paid the cabbie and got out, and Sherlock followed him, his hand coming up to curl into the hem of John's jumper, his ears flat against his head and his tail laying limp behind him. He followed the man through the door, his ears perking up only when it closed behind them.

“I want to clean your head wound,” John said, leading Sherlock up the stairs. “And after that...”

“You'll stay?” Sherlock asked, hating himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He had no right to ask John to stay, and he was about to correct himself when John nodded, reaching out to put a gentle, barely there arm around Sherlock's shoulders.

“I'll stay.” John's voice was soft, barely there encouragement surrounding Sherlock like some sort of shock blanket. “I'll stay the night. I'll have to go to work in the morning, but I'm not going anywhere tonight. I promise.”

The promise comforted Sherlock much more than it should have, and the fact that John stayed close to him only increased his feeling of safety. Victor had always reeked of _Alpha_ , possession, and pain, but John... John felt like soft jumpers and cups of tea and warm blankets. John felt safe, and the cynical side of Sherlock's brain told him that it was likely only Stockholm, but even he had to admit that John seemed to care, for whatever odd reason.

John led him into the bathroom and set to cleaning his wound immediately. Sherlock would have protested, but the dried blood was beginning to itch, and John's gentle, deft fingers felt good as they carefully worked clumps on blood out of his hair. The doctor would pause to scratch lightly behind his ears every few moments, and Sherlock found himself sinking into a hazy sort of bliss, the shock of his fight with Victor and the blood loss finally catching up with him.

He made a small noise of contentment when John put a hand on the small of his back, leading him into the bedroom. He vaguely registered John's voice, but he just hummed his agreement, and the doctor helped him lie down on the mattress, the wounded side of his head facing up. His eyes fluttered as the bed dipped, and then he curled towards the warmth of John's body, his eyes closing as a pair of strong arms wrapped around him.

“Comfortable?”

Sherlock made another noise, followed closely by a yawn. His tail curled around John's wrist, and his fingers fisted in the man's jumper, keeping him as close as he could. He had the distinct feeling that his current state of relaxation would fade the moment John left, and he had no intention of letting the man out of his grasp any time soon.

*

Sherlock looked up at John, his eyes wide and pleading. “Please! John, please. I'll be better, I promise. Really. I won't...”

John raised a hand, shaking his head. “No. You had your chance.” He pushed Sherlock towards the door, ignoring the way the hybrid's fingers clawed at his arms and chest, trying to appeal to him. “I gave you everything. Food. A bed. I treated you well, didn't I? And all I asked was that you give _me_ a little pleasure in return. But that was just too much for you, wasn't it? You just weren't grateful enough.”

Sherlock shook his head frantically, but the next thing he knew, he was out on the street. John hadn't even given him a coat, and it was _cold_ , and he had no phone or money, or anything. He wrapped his arms around himself and started walking, hoping that perhaps one of Mycroft's CCTV cameras would pick him up, so at least he would have a warm place to stay.

A strong arm wrapped around his waist, and Sherlock shrieked, scrambling to get away. The grip only tightened, however, and then a hand pushed him to his knees. “Open,” an altogether too familiar voice said, and Sherlock began to cry. 

The next thing he knew, John was shaking him awake, and he was laying over the side of the bed, retching as his stomach roiled. He curled up on himself, trying to make his body take up as little space as possible. The part of his brain that wasn't focused on attempting to stop the horrible feeling in his stomach from causing him to spew was mortified, horrified that he was making such a fool of himself.

John's hand came up into his hair, and Sherlock flinched away, coughing. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” he managed, bringing his hand up to wipe. “I'm so sorry, John. I'll clean it up, I promise. I...”

“Sherlock, hush.” The bed shifted as John got up, and Sherlock braced himself for the push that would send him to the ground, but it never came. Instead, John's gentle hands helped him sit up and propped him up against the wall, wiping the remnants of bile off the corner of his mouth. “Just sit tight,” he murmured, and Sherlock tried nodding, keeping his eyes focused on his knees.

Tears continued to stream down his cheeks as John got a wet towel from the bathroom and knelt down to clean up the mess. Sherlock didn't dare look down at him, too worried, that, if he moved, he would start retching again.

After a few minutes, John was on his feet again, carrying the towel back into the bathroom. Sherlock was shaking by the time he returned, trembling with leftover panic from his dream and new, current panic that John would realize he was more trouble than he was worth and dump him out on the street. He croaked out another, “I'm sorry,” when the doctor sat down, wincing when John sighed. 

“It's not like you can help it.” John reached out, brushing the hair out of Sherlock's face. He frowned slightly when he noticed the hybrid shaking, touching his forehead to check his temperature. “Are you all right?” His fingertips skated over Sherlock's wet cheeks, and the breath that came from him sounded far too much like exasperation for Sherlock's comfort. 

Before John could say anything else, Sherlock rolled over onto his hands and knees, biting down on his lip, hard, to keep himself from retching again at the sudden movement. He arched his back and dropped his head, just like Victor taught him, rocking backward a little to present himself better. “Please. Please don't make me leave. I... I can't. I can't go back. _Please_.”

For a moment, there was no sound. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, choking back a sob. Crying wasn't attractive, unless John /liked/ that, but he didn't know. He didn't know what to do. He gagged, and a sob broke free, and almost immediately, John's hands were on him, setting him down on his rear and rubbing his back as he coughed and cried. 

He tried to stop a few times, biting out a few sorrys and mumbled pleas for John to let him stay, but the man just kept stroking his back, alternating between rubbing lightly at the base of his neck and running his fingers up and down along his spine. The doctor's other hand laid on his arm, comforting and firm, and Sherlock found himself leaning into it, trying to seek out the comfort he knew he didn't deserve.

Some amount of time later, his cries and sniffles tapered off, leaving him feeling spent and exhausted. He expected John to lean away and go back to sleep, but he did nothing of the sort. If anything, he pulled Sherlock a little closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I'm not Victor,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet but firm. There was something underneath the calm exterior, though, and when John spoke again, Sherlock identified it as anger. It wasn't directed at him, he realized, but at _Victor_. “I wouldn't _ever_ expect you to put out in order to stay here. _Never_. You've been through trauma, Sherlock, and you're going to have bad nights. You're going to have bad days. And I'm going to do my best to take care of you when you do.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, to say that he was used to it, but John didn't give him a chance. “I know... you may not want to talk about what Victor had you doing for him. And I understand that. I just want you to know that if you want something, or if there is something bothering you or making you uncomfortable, you can tell me. I will listen. And I will do my very best to fix it.”

It took Sherlock looking up to realize that he had begun to cry again. John made a sound, something sympathetic, and then reached out, gently brushing his tears away with his sleeve. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, over his ears, and then settled his arm around the hybrid's shoulders, squeezing them gently. “Do you still feel sick?”

Sherlock shook his head, and then paused, biting his lip before nodding slightly. “A little,” he admitted quietly. “I'll be fine, though. I promise. I'll be quiet. I won't...”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, his voice still soft and even. “It's okay. You're not the only one who's ever felt sick after having a nightmare.”

Searching his face, Sherlock nodded slowly, hesitating before he ducked his head, laying it against John's shoulder. His whole body tensed, as if he expected John to push him away, but when the doctor didn't, he relaxed a little, turning his body to tuck himself against John's side. The blond's hand came up to stroke his hair, and Sherlock risked a soft purr, letting it grow louder when John only chuckled. 

They sat there for a while, with John stroking Sherlock's hair and the hybrid laying against him, purring steadily and happily at the kind, comforting touches. John asked, “Better?” after a few minutes, and Sherlock nodded, taking a deep breath before he spoke again.

“It was fine at first,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on John's lap. “He was so good to me. He fed me so well, and he petted me, and he took me outside almost every day. He loved me, John. And then I got out of hand, and he had to keep me inside so I would be safe. But I'm more trouble than I'm worth, and you'll realize that soon enough. Victor did. But he kept me, still. I just had to make sure that he was happy. So I... I did. After he fed me, and after he petted me, and after he let me go outside. And it was like that, for a long time, but I was too much trouble. So he had me earn my keep. That's all. I was only doing what anyone would expect.”

Sherlock shrugged, his eyes going wide when John shifted him, drawing Sherlock into his lap before wrapping his arms around him. Unused to the affection, Sherlock froze, wondering what John could want if it wasn't _that_. “I don't...”

“Just cuddling, Sherlock. Just some free affection.” John looked down at the hybrid, and Sherlock was surprised to see that the doctor's own eyes were wet, glistening with unshed tears. “You don't have to earn anything here. You can just... _be_ , okay? You don't ever have to do any of that, ever again.”

Sherlock nodded, even if he didn't believe John for a moment. Evidently, his distrust was visible, because John reached up and gently stroked his ears, scratching lightly behind them. “It's going to take a while for you to believe me. I know. Just... right now, I want you to know that you're welcome to stay here for as long as you like, without worrying about having to earn your keep.”

Without saying anything, Sherlock tucked his head back against John's chest, moving around until his ear settled over his heart. Victor hadn't let him sleep in his bed after the first week or so, and Sherlock had hated that. He _needed_ to be able to hear that sound. It was more relaxing than any of the petting, and it assured him that the person responsible for keeping him alive was still well.

They stayed like that for a long time, slowly shifting until they ended up laying down on the bed, Sherlock's back pressed up against John's front. The hybrid's head was tucked under John's chin, and he could feel the doctor's heartbeat against his back, as well as his steady breathing in his hair. One of John's arms was looped around Sherlock's waist, and the other was under his head, and all in all, it was the closest Sherlock had come to content in a long time. 

“Good?” John asked after a moment, the word creating a puff of breath against Sherlock's ears.

The hybrid hummed his agreement, wiggling back a bit closer to John. “Good,” he answered, yawning quietly before he began to purr again. The sound of the vibrations was the only noise in the room, and not long after, Sherlock found himself drifting off, lulled into a sense of security.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer to write than I anticipated. However... Merry Christmas! And a very Happy New Year to you all. You guys are the best, seriously. I never thought that this fic would get over _300_ subscribers (which is probably a small number compared to some of you, but I am so happy with that number.) Hope you all have a safe holiday :)


	12. Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collar for Sherlock, for eragon19, the3f4ng1rl; Mystrade, for YukitoNO1, Astarael.

John awoke with the sun and the sound of commuters, his nose twitching as Sherlock's hair tickled it. The hybrid was still asleep, his breaths even and soft, his lips slightly parted and his forehead scrunched in a way that should not have been as endearing as it was. John smiled softly. It was a rare thing to see Sherlock relaxed enough to sleep so vulnerably.

Four days after Victor, John had spent enough time around the hybrid to know that seeing him relaxed was not going to be a thing that happened frequently. But there were moments like this, when Sherlock wasn't fully aware, or when he had nested himself into safety, that he was simply gorgeous, and John decided that he would never grow tired of the feeling of having Sherlock limp in his arms.

All too soon, Sherlock stirred, every muscle in his body tensing. His nose scrunched, and he let out a low, scratchy growl, one hand reaching up to paw at his eyes. He mewled, and John couldn't help but curl up a little more, pressing his nose into Sherlock's curls. “Morning, 'lock.”

Sherlock squirmed out of John's arms, and the doctor pulled back only to have Sherlock roll over and press himself up against John's chest, eyes still closed. “It's Sunday,” he hybrid said.

Ah. John propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at Sherlock. “I don't have to go in to the clinic today.”

All he got in response was a hum and a sassy flick of the ears.

“I can't actually stay in bed all day,” he protested, although the words sounded halfhearted even to him. “There are other things to do. Grocery shopping. Dusting. _You_ need a bath, my good sir.”

Sherlock mewled again, and John tried to remember when the hybrid had become so adept at manipulation. He didn't mind, exactly – if he had been at all serious, Sherlock would have already been out of bed and under the stream of tepid water. He had picked up well on the line between play and obstinacy, and he took care never to cross it.

“Fine,” John agreed with a huff. He kicked off one layer of blankets, and then held his arms out for Sherlock, who curled close with a sleepy purr. In all seriousness, John wouldn't have denied him that small pleasure for the world. Seeing Sherlock happy, well-adjusted and content, was worth more than John cared to think about.

They laid there for another half-hour before Sherlock's eyes opened sleepily, eyelashes fluttering against John's chest. He yawned, and John could see the tiny points his canines made, slightly sharper than that of a human's. “Are you going to let me get up, now? Or am I going to continue to be held captive in my own bed?”

Sherlock didn't deign to reply. Instead, he untangled himself from John's limbs and sat up, rolling his shoulders before crossing his legs, wrinkling his nose as he stretched. In the mornings, he was more cat that human, and his waking ablutions were something to see, if nothing else.

The hybrid's tail flicked lazily behind him while he stretched, much like a cat could, back arching before he settled back onto his heels. His ears twitched, and he reached up to run his fingers through the mess of his hair, curls bouncing as he untangled a few of the knots. By the time he was finished, he looked much more awake, and was able to turn to look at John, eyes bright and alert. 

“You're going to Tesco's?”

John nodded, already up out of bed and pulling his robe around himself. “Do you need anything?”

Sherlock shook his head, and then paused, biting his lip. “I'd like to leave,” he said, and John's heart sank a little in his chest. That was an understatement, actually. His heart dropped into his stomach, and he closed his eyes for a moment, nodding.

The next thing he knew, Sherlock was in front of him, gripping the front of John's robe as he shook his head. “No! No, John, I didn't mean _leave_. I just meant leave the flat, that's all, I don't want to leave, please don't...”

“Hey, there. Hush.” John slipped his arms around Sherlock, holding him close for a brief moment. “It's all right. No harm done.”

Sherlock all but buried his face in John's chest, his purr slightly agitated, almost a whine. “I don't want to leave,” he repeated, and John held him that much closer. 

“You don't have to,” he assured him, leaning back a little to look down at Sherlock. “But you did say you wanted to leave the flat. I'm all for that. We just need to get you a collar.” He met Sherlock's eyes. “Are you all right with that?”

Sherlock nodded immediately, but when John didn't break the gaze, he ducked his head a little, shrugging. “I know it doesn't mean anything. You don't... your intent is not to own me. Don't worry, John. I... I know that.”

The difficulty Sherlock had in getting the words out made John a little disinclined to believe him, but he went along with it for the moment, reaching up to brush his fingers over Sherlock's ears. The hybrid purred, and John sighed. “I can get you a collar to wear when you leave the house. Something simple, and you don't have to wear it around the flat at all.”

The only response he got was a, “Send me a photo before you buy it.” 

*

Seven photos and three false starts later, John held a small, red velvet box in his hands. It contained the collar that Sherlock had decided on, a thin, black affair lined with red plush. It was simple, and it had a silver ring attached so that John could affix his own credentials, giving Sherlock permission to be out of the flat. All in all, it was a ridiculous sort of adherence to the rules, but all the same, it wasn't a rule John or Sherlock could afford to ignore.

He returned to the flat an hour later with groceries and the collar. The latter was tucked into his back pocket in the hopes that Sherlock wouldn't stumble across it while rifling through the bags in search of the hydrogen peroxide he'd also asked for. If they were going to do this, no matter how convoluted their relationship was, John was going to do it right.

He smiled slightly when he stepped into the flat. Sherlock was perched on the counter, two of the kitchen glasses next to him. One was filled with water, or what John assumed to be water, and the other contained about an inch of a a bright red liquid that...

“Is that _blood_?”

Sherlock looked up, his face looking almost guilty. “Mrs. Hudson had a chicken,” he said defensively. “It's not mine. Not yet. I haven't run enough tests.”

“Tests,” John repeated, setting the bags from Tesco's down on the counter next to Sherlock. “Tests for what?”

“Genetic isolation.”

The made John pause. “But... don't you need equipment for that? Microscopes and things like that?”

Sherlock bit his lip, tiny fangs showing as he nodded. “To do it properly, yes. All I can do now is basic blood type testing. Bleaching, if I'm lucky. But yeah. My brother still has my equipment in storage, and he or I can arrange to have a separate flat rented for it, close by. It won't be a bother, I promise. You won't even know I...”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, watching the hybrid go still and silent. He hated the fact that Sherlock thought he was in trouble almost every time John spoke, and it made him that much more eager to make the hybrid as comfortable and happy as he could. “You can keep your things here. There's the spare bedroom that I only use to store things I shouldn't even have anymore, and there's the kitchen that no one uses, anyway.” He nudged Sherlock's shoulder lightly. “You can bring your equipment here, if you're amenable.”

The brilliant smile he got in return was more than worth the soon-to-be inconvenience of cleaning out the other bedroom.

Sherlock set the glasses aside before sliding down off the counter, his tail twitching along behind him as he started unpacking the bags. He made a noise when he found the hydrogen peroxide, holding the bottle happily for a moment before setting it down next to the glasses. Between the two of them, the bags were unloaded and put away fairly quickly, though John didn't miss the flash of disappointment on Sherlock's face when the last bag was crumpled up and there was no sight of a collar. 

Taking a deep breath, John went over to sit on the sofa. He patted the space next to him, and after eyeing him uncertainly for a moment, Sherlock made his way over to sit next to him, tucking one leg underneath himself before settling down. 

“Everything's all right,” John assured him, just to take the worried, slightly apprehensive look off Sherlock's face. “Believe me, 'lock, I'd let you know far beforehand if something was wrong. You're fine. Promise.”

Sherlock relaxed a little at that, bringing his other leg up and tucking it under himself as well. Sometimes it surprised John just how little it took to reassure Sherlock, and it made him wonder just how often the hybrid _had_ been reassured.

Taking a deep breath, John reached into his pocket, pulling out the little black collar. “The tags are being made right now,” he said, holding the collar out for Sherlock to examine. “It's the one you said yes to. The first one. Not the other two, because I have the distinct feeling that you were playing with me at that point. Pink with jewels? Somehow, I don't think that would have suited you.”

Sherlock blushed, actually turned pink, his eyes dropping to his lap. He opened his mouth, as if he was going to apologize, but John held up a hand, shaking his head. “It's fine. I'm glad you're comfortable enough to tease me. Really, I am.” He smiled, and watched as Sherlock relaxed again. 

The hybrid reached out, hesitating before he picked up the collar. He turned it over in his hands, and John let him examine it for a while. “It just has a buckle,” he said after a minute. “No lock. No key. The kind of thing you could probably undo in your sleep, actually.”

Sherlock nodded, looking up at John before handing the collar back. “And it's only for wearing outside the flat?”

There was something in Sherlock's voice, something in his tone and the phrasing of his question that made John pause. “You only have to wear it when you want to leave,” he said slowly. “But you can wear it whenever you want. I'm not going to stop you, Sherlock. It's your body, and in a moment, it's going to be your collar.”

The hybrid's gray eyes darted up, meeting John's curiously. They held his gaze for a moment, and then Sherlock turned his back to John, dipping his head forward and baring the back of his neck. 

John bit his lip so hard it broke the skin. The rush of possessiveness in his chest was entirely unwanted and unwarranted, and he had to take a moment to make sure his hands weren't shaking before he undid the latch on the collar, bringing it up over Sherlock's head and setting it over his throat. Careful not to pull, he slipped the leather strip through the buckle and poked the prong through the hole, cinching it securely. When he finally let go, the black leather settled on Sherlock's pale skin, resting there like it was at home.

John swallowed the entirely inappropriate wave of arousal that hit him, patting Sherlock's shoulder. “It looks perfect.”

Sherlock turned, just his shoulders and his neck, and gave John a smile. “Yeah?” He didn't wait for an answer, though, jumping to his feet and running into the bathroom. John watched him disappear, and then sank back into the cushions of the sofa, closing his eyes. _Pull it together, man. You've got no business getting involved there._

He opened his eyes when Sherlock returned a moment later, returning the infectious smile that the hybrid was sporting. He was still wearing the collar, too, and the surge of possessiveness that welled up in John's throat was harder to suppress. 

Sherlock sat back down and tucked himself in against John's side. “Thank you,” he said quietly, the fingers of one hand coming up to trace the edge of the collar. 

John swallowed, and then put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. “You're welcome. The tags should be here in a day or two.” 

Sherlock nodded, and he tucked his head into John's shoulder, making himself comfortable as John turned on the telly. Every once in a while, the light would reflect off the silver buckle, though, and it would catch John's eye.

_I am so bloody fucked._

*

The thing about Sherlock's purr was that it was addicting. When John went into the clinic every day, that was the first thing he noticed was missing. There was background music, yes, but somehow the dulcet tones of the Wanted wasn't the same as Sherlock near-constant, quiet rumble. 

Then there were times like this one, where Sherlock was pressed up against him and half asleep, and his purr was loud and steady, and John couldn't think of a place he'd rather be. He'd become all too used to having Sherlock around. The hybrid's presence filled up the flat and made it more... like a home. 

It was ridiculous, and John had tried to shake the feeling, but it was no use. Sherlock felt like home, and that was that. 

Whatever programme they were watching ended, and Sherlock stretched, simply ending up tucked more firmly against John's side. His purr continued, and John would have been more than content to sit there for the rest of the afternoon and do nothing but doze and pet Sherlock's hair. Of course, someone chose that moment to knock on the downstairs door, so he sighed, getting to his feet. “I'll be back.”

He opened the door to walk down the stairs, surprised to see Mrs. Hudson ushering Mycroft and Lestrade into the foyer. Mycroft was, as always, impeccably dressed, but Lestrade was wearing a football sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, obviously off-duty.

They made their way up the stairs, and John let them into the flat, still wondering why they were there. So he asked as much, giving them both questioning looks.

Mycroft twirled his umbrella, looking around the flat in poorly disguised disgust. “Brother dearest,” he called as he walked into the sitting room. He said something else, as well, but John was distracted by Sherlock appearing from around the corner, still wearing his collar. 

He looked... well, annoyed, to begin with. He shot Mycroft a glare, and then drew himself up to his full height, which, John noticed, had increased by a handful of centimeters. His neck was arched, and the collar was painfully visible. 

Lestrade gave John a look that seemed to be a mix of appraisal and disappointment, but John figured he could ignore the man for the time being, because at the moment, Sherlock was standing at his side, with their arms very nearly brushing. His defiant stance was directed entirely at Mycroft, who simply looked... amused.

“I see we haven't learned our lesson, yet.”

Sherlock stiffened, and Lestrade glanced sharply at the other Holmes. “Mycroft!”

To John's surprise, Mycroft's cat-with-the-cream look faded, replaced with squared shoulders and lips drawn into a tight line. “I was simply questioning the wisdom of entering into a new relationship so soon after the previous one went so horribly wrong.”

Both John and Lestrade bristled at that, the former taking a half-step forward. “Now, listen here...”

“It's not a relationship.”

John froze, turning to look back at Sherlock. The hybrid was holding Mycroft's gaze, his stiff posture not faltering one bit. “If the basis of your definition of relationship is what I had with Victor, then no, this does not even begin to approach a relationship. Brother.” Sherlock moved to be at John's side once again, this time pressing himself up against the ex-soldier's body. “Everything you see is perfectly voluntary. And since you've been monitoring my text message conversations, you'll know exactly how voluntary this was.” He lifted his chin, showing off the collar. “Are we clear?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and threw a glance at Lestrade. When he looked back at Sherlock, his expression was... resigned. “You won't be safe here.”

Sherlock shifted, and John realized that the hybrid was trembling. It wasn't visible, and nothing in his posture or expression would betray the fact, but he was, ever so minutely. “I'm handling the problem.”

“Like you did last time?”

Sherlock hissed. It was the first time John had heard him make that noise, and he looked down at the hybrid, startled. Sherlock's ears were flat against his head, and his pupils had become slits in the gray of his irises. His whole body was tense, but his tail had come up to lay against John's lower back, as if to stabilize him. 

Then, the next moment, Sherlock relaxed, his pupils expanding and his posture slumping slightly as he leaned into John that much more. “Of course,” he said, his voice almost a drawl. “Your methods have been much more... productive, after all.”

John and Lestrade exchanged a glance as Mycroft paled, coughed, and straightened. “I haven't the faintest idea of what you mean.”

With a smirk, Sherlock's eyes flickered over to Lestrade. “Only the brave.”

For a moment, John believed that Mycroft was going to raise his umbrella and hit Sherlock upside the head with it. The he smiled, condescendingly, and turned, nodding at Lestrade. “My brother is perfectly fine with his current arrangements. I do believe we can leave now.”

Lestrade looked at the Holmes as if he'd never seen him before, and then made a little noise, walking past Mycroft and over to John. The elder Holmes seemed to take that as his cue, and he left without another word. As soon as the door closed, Sherlock extracted himself from John's side and practically ran up the stairs. The sound of the bedroom door slamming met his ears a moment later.

“What the _hell_ was that?”

John shrugged at Lestrade's question. “Damned if I know.” He glanced worriedly up the stairs, itching to go after Sherlock, but not wanting to invade the hybrid's space if he wanted some time.

“That first... the quip about 'learning our lesson'...” Lestrade began, and then sighed. “I don't know what's wrong with him. He obviously likes _you_ , but he doesn't approve of Sherlock liking you. Does that make sense? Bloody hell.”

“He's protective,” John said. “He thinks he can take care of his brother better than I can.”

Lestrade nodded, and then paused, shrugging. “It's more than that, though. For god's sake, Sherlock used the name of my _cologne_ to shut Myc up.” At John's questioning glance, he elaborated. “Only the Brave. How he knew about it, god only knows.”

The gray-haired man sighed, and then turned to John, holding out his hand. “I am sorry for all of that. You and Sherlock obviously get along famously. He... I've known him for a while, yeah? And I've never seen him willingly touch someone like that.” He tossed a glance up the stairs, and then looked back at John. “Take care of him.”

“I wouldn't do anything less,” John answered, shaking Lestrade's hand. The DI left, after, and John could hear his and Mycroft's voices raised in indistinct conversation as they walked out to the street. He spent a moment there in the entry, debating whether or not to go upstairs, but the idea of Sherlock being alone and upset decided his actions for him.

He climbed the stairs, noticing immediately that the door to their bedroom was open, but the one to the spare was closed. There were no sounds coming from it, so he knocked gently, leaning against the wall. “Sherlock?”

One of the floorboards creaked, and a moment later, the door opened a crack and Sherlock's face peeked out. John's stomach did a funny lurch when he realized that the hybrid was no longer wearing his collar, but he didn't comment on it. The last thing they hybrid needed at this point was John giving him grief. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock nodded, paused, and then shook his head, his eyes on the ground. 

“Do you want some company?”

Sherlock shook his head again, but he pushed the door open a little farther. “Your flat,” he said under his breath.

John had been about to take a step forward, but he stopped abruptly at Sherlock's words. For some reason, they hurt, the thought that Sherlock didn't think of the flat as his home cutting John far deeper than it should have. So, instead of walking into the room, John simply bent his head and pressed a kiss to the mess of curls between Sherlock's ears. “Our flat,” he corrected gently. “And your room.”

Sherlock's ears twitched, and he looked up, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly. He still looked miserable, but there was something that looked disturbingly like hope in his eyes. “Yeah?”

John nodded. “Yeah. You can be alone, if you want to. I'm not going to promise not to check on you, but I won't come in here unless I'm invited.”

The grateful look that he got in return was enough to make John wonder, not for the first time, exactly what had happened to Sherlock while he was with Victor. But he still stepped back when Sherlock closed the door and went downstairs to make a cup of tea, giving the hybrid the space he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please send some suggestions of what you want to see my way. I have an idea of where the plot is going, but I am _more_ than happy to include anything you guys want to see. Really. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside when someone requests something that I can fulfill.
> 
> Also. I've started doing a few prompt fills, and I would absolutely love it if any of you guys wanted to prompt me. Just leave a comment with a pairing (I have a list of fandoms on my profile page) and a prompt, or head over to my [Tumblr](http://theexplodingpen.tumblr.com/) and prompt me there.


	13. Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Subtext; spaghetti; an important revelation.

Sherlock stayed in his room for far longer than he wanted to. He wasn't _testing_ John, per say. He just wanted to see if the other man truly meant it when he said that he'd leave Sherlock alone, and check in on him. Honestly, the hybrid doubted that the latter bit would happen. From what he could hear, John had turned on the telly when he went downstairs, and since Sherlock was sitting (very) quietly on the bed he never used, there was nothing to attract John's attention to himself. 

He was pleasantly surprised when, an hour later, John's gentle knock sounded on his door. “Sherlock?” came the man's voice. “I'm going to start on dinner. Does spaghetti sound okay?”

Sherlock scrambled to his feet, going over to the door and opening it a crack. John's smiling countenance met his eyes, and he nodded. “Do I have to come down now?”

John shook his head. “You can stay in here as long as you need to. Or want to.” He paused. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock nodded briskly, and this time, the motion was a little more honest. “Just...” He trailed off, looking for the right word. “Annoyed,” he settled on a moment later. “My brother has the nerve to criticise me for staying with someone who keeps me safe, when he is doing the exact same thing with that DI.” He huffed, leaning against the doorframe. “They're obviously sleeping together. Showering together, as well. Mycroft was positively _saturated_ with Lestrade's cologne.”

He sighed again, looking at the ground. The conversation he and Mycroft had had aloud had been bad enough for John to hear – Mycroft had all but implied that John would treat him the same way Victor had – but the silent one, the in-between-the-lines conversation they'd had while speaking had been worse.

*

_“I see we haven't learned our lesson yet.”_

Honestly, Sherlock. You tried this before. He's a goldfish.

_“I was simply questioning the wisdom of entering into a new relationship after the previous one went so horribly wrong.”_

Is this going to end any differently? He is just a man, after all. And you're still relatively fragile even if you won't admit it.

_“It's not a relationship. If the basis for your definition of relationship is what I had with Victor, then no, this does not even begin to approach a relationship, Brother.”_

I am not using John, and he is not using me.

_“Everything you see is perfectly voluntary. And since you've been monitoring my text message conversations, you'll know exactly how voluntary this was. Are we clear?”_

I am here because I want to be, not because I have to be. John is not keeping me, nor do I have no other options.

_“You won't be safe here.”_

Victor won't act as a shield anymore.

_“I'm handling the problem.”_

I'm going to tell John. He'll keep me safe. He's not a goldfish, Mycroft.

_“Like you did last time?”_

Don't get emotional. Your investigating and prying almost got you killed, last time.

_“Of course, your methods have been much more... productive, after all.”_

Follow your own advice, brother. Perhaps you could do to lose a little emotional attachment.

_“I haven't the faintest idea of what you mean.”_

It's not emotional, Sherlock. Purely beneficial. An agreement. 

_“Only the Brave.”_

You reek of his cologne. You both showed up, presumably to check on me, but did that really require the both of you? Perhaps, considering Lestrade's damaged emotional status from his wife leaving him. He does tend to form attachments rather easily. But you're sleeping with him, and that's not necessary. That's emotional enough.

*

“Sherlock?”

The hybrid looked up, blinking at John.

“Spaghetti.”

Oh. Sherlock flushed, embarrassment flooding his system as he nodded sheepishly. His hand came up to rub at his neck, which was bare, and that realization made him huff. “One moment?” he asked uncertainly, before ducking back into his room. The collar was lying on the edge of the bed where he'd dropped it in his haste to get it off and breathe and _not_ hear Victor's voice in his head telling him he didn't deserve it or Mycroft's voice in his ear telling him he was fragile and damaged and should be handled with latex gloves, not leather.

He took a deep breath.

He picked up the collar with fingers that only shook slightly and held it between his hands for a moment, just breathing. It was John's collar. John had given it to him. John had told him that he didn't have to wear it.

That was the important distinction. This was John, not Victor, not Mycroft, and not some faceless professional hired to keep him safe. John cared.

John was standing outside his room waiting for his answer on whether spaghetti was all right for dinner.

He padded back to the door, peeking around it and holding out the collar. “Spaghetti sounds good,” he said, hoping the request was evident.

Thankfully, John didn't make him vocalize it. The man took the collar, and Sherlock turned around, dropping his head forward to bare the back of his neck. A moment later, he felt the cool metal of the buckle against his neck. His posture relaxed, and he closed his eyes.

_John Watson, you keep me right._

*

Halfway through his second bowl of pasta, Sherlock realized that he had yet to discuss the matter Mycroft had referenced with John. The thought was enough to kill the rest of his appetite. While he was fairly certain that John would understand, he wasn't _sure_. He couldn't read John like he could read Mycroft and Lestrade and Victor and everyone else.

Perhaps Mycroft had been right, just a little. Emotional attachment clouded his judgment, and he couldn't afford to let that happen again. Not now. Not when Victor had been disappeared, right long with his protection.

He had to tell John, before something happened. He had to be able to make an informed decision on whether he wanted to keep Sherlock around. If he was worth the risk. And didn't that thought just make him want to curl up against John's side and never leave.

Pushing his plate away, he sat up, untucking his legs from underneath himself. He was shorter like that, but less casual, and the conversation he was about to have with John was anything but casual.

“John?”

The man looked up. “Yes?”

“Someone's trying to kill me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me too much for leaving it on that note.


	14. Serial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's confession; Mycroft is the British government; Lestrade needs to sleep.

John had been to war. John had been shot at and retained his composure; he had _shot_ at people and kept his cool. He had stitched together wounds while the patients screamed and gunfire sounded around them, and through it all, he had always _done_ something, even if he was operating on auto-pilot. He had never frozen.

John was frozen. _What?_ A few synapses tried firing, and all he could think of was Victor. He would have a fairly strong motive, but Mycroft had supposedly made him disappear. Was he back? Was he going to come after Sherlock? If he did, John was going to be ready, both legally and physically. He'd be damned if he was going to let that bastard get his hands on Sherlock, or _anyone_ , ever again.

“You're angry.”

Blinking, John focused on Sherlock. The hybrid seemed to have shrunk down in his seat, but he didn't look sad, or frightened. Just... resigned. 

“Not at you,” John said quickly. “No, Sherlock. I'm not angry with you.” He moved around the table, bending over to brush his fingers through Sherlock's hair before tucking the hybrid in close against his body. He could feel him trembling slightly, and the brief thought of 'how is this my life?' flashed through his mind before being replaced with worry. “Mycroft handled Victor. He's not going to be able to hurt you, Sherlock. You don't have to worry. You're safe.”

Sherlock shook his head, squirming out of John's arms. “It's not Victor,” he said, and John had never heard him sound quite so earnest, so desperate, not even on that first day that John had brought him home. “Victor has been handled, and can be handled. This is different. He's _bigger_ , and he's _smarter_ , and he's...” Sherlock waved a hand, sliding out of his chair, his feet barely hitting the ground before he started pacing. “He's dangerous, and that's what you need to know in order to make an educated decision about this. I don't want you not to know what you are getting yourself into with me, because having me around will put you in danger, in all likelihood, and I'm _sorry_ , I should have told you earlier, but...”

“Sherlock.”

The hybrid stopped pacing and talking, looking up at John with wide eyes. The difference in their heights was already beginning to diminish a little, but the look on Sherlock's face made him appear so infinitely young and _hopeful_. And at the same time, underneath the panic and youthfulness, there was a sort of grim determination. Sherlock was preparing himself for John to tell him no, that this was too much and that he couldn't deal. 

Taking a deep breath, John sat down in the chair Sherlock had vacated a few moments earlier. When he didn't say anything, Sherlock stiffened, nodding resolutely. “Of course. I understand. If you would grant me a few hours, I can arrange for my brother to...”

“ _Sherlock_.”

John waited until Sherlock met his eyes. “I'm not going to kick you out. Do you understand me? I need you to calm down and _sit_ , okay? Give me a moment to think and process all of this. But please don't go anywhere, and please, _please_ don't jump to any conclusions.”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then he abruptly sat down next to John's chair, crossing his legs and leaning against John's shin. After a moment, John lifted his hand and slowly began to drag his fingers through Sherlock's curls, brushing over his dark, velvety ears, scratching lightly at the base of Sherlock's neck. They sat there for John didn't know how long, until Sherlock's breathing evened out and melted into a purr, and until his own mind left the rut of _Sherlock-danger-protect_ and actually started considering the situation rationally. 

“Who's trying to kill you?”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's leg. “M. My sources indicate his full name is Moriarty.” He pushed his head up a little, and John couldn't ignore the obvious request for the petting and stroking to continue.

Moriarty. It wasn't exactly a common name, but John still hesitated before he spoke again. “The scientist?”

Sherlock nodded briskly. “Yes. The scientist. He holds the patent for the kind of genetic alteration used to create my brother and I, as well as the rest of the hybrid population.” His voice was quiet, subdued, muffled by John's trouser leg. 

John nodded slowly, rubbing his thumb over the spot under Sherlock's ear. “He's made attempts before, then.”

Nodding again, the hybrid curled a little more around John's leg. “Victor was his last attempt. The man was supposed to kill me months ago, but his somewhat unhealthy obsession with me prevented that. Lestrade would tell me to be grateful for the little things.”

John made a noise in his throat. “There's no world where you should be grateful for being abused, Sherlock. Look, I... I'll look into what I can do. I'm sure Mycroft has some sort of file on the man. I need that. And I need to know why he's trying to kill you. It's not that I don't believe you, because I do. I just can't figure out _why_ Moriarty would want you dead.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, long enough that John began to wonder if the hybrid had fallen asleep there against his leg. He wasn't going to say anything, because Sherlock sleeping meant Sherlock was tired, and most likely growing, and that was something that John wasn't going to interrupt. Period. But a moment or two later, Sherlock stirred, sighing quietly against John's knee. “It's... complicated.”

The doctor waited, but Sherlock didn't say anything else. After a moment of silence, he coughed. “Complicated, how?” he asked carefully.

Sherlock made a noise. “Complicated enough.” Every muscle in the hybrid's body tensed, and he opened his mouth to continue, but John put a gentle hand on the back of his neck.

“Breathe, Sherlock. I know this is stressful for you, and you're starting to panic. Take a break. I'll get in contact with Mycroft and get whatever information he has. If I've got any questions after that, we'll talk some more, all right?”

Nodding silently, Sherlock curled around John's shin a little tighter. There were moments like these that reminded John, forcefully, that for all Sherlock's bravado and progress and intellect, he was still a victim of horrendous physical and emotional abuse. The fact that they hybrid had _willingly_ subjected himself to the whims of a cruel and malevolent master because it was the only way to keep said master from killing him just made it that much worse.

And now, Victor was no longer a buffer between Sherlock and Moriarty. In all likelihood, the man was going to be doubly bent on getting rid of Sherlock, and likely John himself. As well.

They needed information, and a plan, and some help. There were no two ways about it.

*

It ended up that John didn't even have to text the eldest Holmes brother. The man arrived barely a quarter hour after Sherlock's slightly shocking revelation, complete with the Detective Inspector in tow. Lestrade looked spent and annoyed, and judging from the bags under his eyes, he hadn't slept in days. Both men were wielding manila case files in their hands, and when John glanced at Lestrade questioningly, all he got was “Bloody serial suicides.”

Sherlock had moved from his position, curled up against John's thigh. When John had gone to get the door, the hybrid had moved into one of the chairs, and his collar has disappeared from his neck. His demeanor had shifted as well, from that of someone very much in need of comfort to that of someone very... aloof. It was reminiscent of Mycroft's cold superiority, and while John didn't like it, he understood the reason behind the forced persona. Sherlock needed to step away from the case emotionally, or else he wasn't going to be any help. 

As it was, Sherlock wasn't much help, anyway. When he had assured himself that Mycroft had brought everything, he moved over to the kitchen table, which Lestrade had commandeered and spread his case files out on. John watched him for a moment, ignoring the long-suffering sigh that came from Mycroft, because dammit, minor position in the British government or not, the man could wait for a bloody moment while he checked on his brother to make sure the hybrid wasn't going to have a panic attack in the middle of their discussion on the man who wanted to kill him.

John took a deep breath. _How was this his life?_

“Dr. Watson, if you are ready to begin?”

“What? Yeah, of course.”

Mycroft flicked the (rather thick) file open on the coffee table, showing John two sets of what appeared to be surveillance photos of Professor Moriarty. As the elder Holmes brother began to speak, all John could do was look at the photographs and wonder what could possess this an to want Sherlock _dead_.

*

Sherlock wasn't the only one Moriarty wanted dead. Not by a long shot.

“ _How_ many?”

“Twenty.”

“Jesus.” John leaned forward over the file, running a hand through his hair. “How many are left?”

Mycroft removed a piece of paper from the file, holding it out for John to take. “Eleven. Two died in incidences that had no relation to Morarity. The other seven are a direct result of the man's involvement. Sherlock and I are only alive due to my current position and our respective pursuits of our intellects.”

John blinked. “I'm still confused. Why these twenty hybrids? What's so special about you and Sherlock and the others that this guy _personally_ wants you dead?”

If the nose Mycroft made was any indication, he was getting tired of explaining things to John. “This group was the first successful batch of post-birth altered hybrids. Before Moriarty went commercial with his findings, he intended to engineer and breed a species with genetically and intellectually superior to humans. These... test subjects were altered after birth, on a purely voluntary basis, and the end result were hybrids like us. Elite, John. Not household pets.”

It was making sense, now. “Not profitable, either.”

The look that spread across Mycroft's face was nothing short of appraising, and it made John more nervous than he would ever care to admit. “No, it wasn't. His research was being watched meticulously, however, so he was forced to allow us to return to our homes. I have attempted to keep that surveillance on him, but my efforts have recently not been enough.”

John's head was spinning just a little. “So he wants you dead because you're intelligent.”

“I suppose that's one way of putting it.”

Decidedly sick of Mycroft's perpetually bored tone, John leaned forward in his seat. “And what's another way of putting it?”

“The fact that there are hybrids that are not only as intelligent, but actually more so than the rest of the population undermines Mortiarty's fundamental businesses principle that hybrids are naturally less intelligent than their human counterparts.”

“Then why aren't you _doing_ something?” John asked, still rather incensed. 

Mycroft cocked a somewhat haughty eyebrow. “What would you have me do, Dr. Watson? Give up the position that has kept my brother and I alive and join the Activist movement? If that were an at all logical move, I assure you, I would have a long while ago. However. Removing myself from the government's watchful eye is the last thing that is going to keep either of us alive.”

Oh. It made sense. John didn't like it, but it made sense. “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

Mycroft moved to pick up the file, slipping the photos and sheets of paper back inside. “I believe that is entirely up to you. Gregory? I'm finished.”

John glanced over at the table, surprised to see Lestrade asleep, his head resting on his cross arms. Well, that wasn't what was odd, actually. Sherlock was bent over the case file, obviously immersed in reading. When Lestrade jerked awake, Sherlock ignored his brother, pushing the case file towards the DI as they both got to their feet. “They weren't suicides.”

The gray-haired man looked at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. “Oh? And how can you tell?”

Sherlock shrugged. “There's no such thing as serial suicides. Serial implies connected, which they obviously are, as is evidenced by the similar poisons. But the victims bear no connection to each other. Therefore, the connection must be established in a separate party.”

Lestrade stopped, running a hand through his hair as Mycroft gave John a look that seemed to say, “See?” And John did see. That was Sherlock's genius, normally hidden, being exemplified. 

“It makes sense,” Lestrade said, gathering up the file. “It would be better if we had evidence.”

John's eyes fell to Sherlock's tail. It was twitching behind him, but not out of fear or panic. Sherlock was _excited_ , and that was confirmed by the fact that his ears were sticking straight up. “You'll have to wait until he kills again, of course. He'll get sloppy, eventually. They usually do.”

Lestrade huffed, turning to Mycroft. “I'd rather catch the bastard before he kills again.”

Sherlock didn't answer that, and a moment later, Mycroft and Lestrade left.

After the door closed, Sherlock leaned against John's side, and the doctor's hand came up reflexively to card through his hair. “Hungry?” he asked almost absently, and Sherlock turned his head to look up at him, frowning.

“You have all the facts.”

John blinked, nodding. “Yeah. About Moriarty? Yeah. Mycroft showed me the file.”

Sherlock's frown deepened. “And you still want me to stay?”

Oh. “Of course, Sherlock. I told you I'd help, didn't I? Now, I was thinking we could order some Thai. Or Chinese. Whichever you... oof.”

Suddenly, listing off their options for dinner was nowhere near as important as returning the tight, full-body hug that Sherlock was giving him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Look at that. Another chapter. So sorry for the wait, guys, but finals are finally over!!
> 
> In unrelated news, this [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VjT4BzLTaJU) was on repeated the whole time I was writing this chapter. Go check it out! It's by an amazing up-and-coming band, and their video has Ben Whishaw in it :)


	15. Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Study in Pink; Mike Stamford; Moriarty and Moran

John bought another gun after he found out about Moriarty. Sherlock saw him bring it back to the flat one day, just a lump in his pocket, while he was going over case files with Lestrade. The gun didn't bother him, but for whatever reason, the fact that John was worried did. More importantly, it was the fact that John was worried because of _him_. He had brought his new danger into John's life.

“Sherlock?”

The hybrid perked up, his eyes darting back to the files. “Obviously, they're connected. As I said before, there's no such thing as serial suicides, so you're looking for a murderer. Serial killer. Those are always _fun_.”

Lestrade fixed him with a look, which Sherlock answered with a small shrug. “They're begging to be caught. To be noticed. With serial killers, there's almost something to look forward to. They're predictable, and inevitably, their desire to be noticed will surpass their self-preservation instinct.”

At that moment, John reentered the room, looking more than a little impressed. The look made Sherlock squirm a bit, his tail coiling and uncoiling on his thigh as a new, slightly foreign feeling fluttered in his stomach. It intensified when John walked by and ruffled his hair, his thick, strong fingers brushing over Sherlock's ears. A soft rumble escaped the hybrid's throat, and his attention on the files in front of him wavered for another moment before he made himself focus. _Serial killer, Sherlock. Catch him._

“There's something connecting all three victims,” he said. “Something small, but something all the same. Something other than the poison. It's not quite an MO, but it is close. It's a start. When he kills again, I'd like very much to see the body, if at all possible.” He looked up at Lestrade, hoping the eagerness wasn't all too evident in his eyes.

John walked back in front the kitchen, two cups of tea in his hands. One he set down in front of Lestrade, earning a look of eternal thankfulness from the man, and the other next to Sherlock, before taking a seat himself. “Isn't _if_ he kills again a bit more hopeful?

“I believe _naive_ is a more accurate term.” Sherlock's ears flicked forward, his attention on John. “Serial killers kill. Serially. Unless something has already happened to our killer, it is statistically likely that he will kill again.”

“And you'll be able to catch him?” Lestrade sounded distinctly unsure. “I'm going out on a limb for you here, Sherlock. I'm not even sure what...”

“I am confident I will be able to find him. Before...” Sherlock glanced over at John, and then down at the table. “Before my previous _arrangement_ , I did attempt to help the police with their cases, however much they did not appreciate the input of my 9-year-old self.” He paused, and then took a breath. “I am aware that I have not had the opportunity to prove myself to you as of yet, but I'm sure you've discussed me with my brother, or you wouldn't be giving me this opportunity to begin with. All I ask is for that one chance.”

Both John and Lestrade just looked at him, and Sherlock's ears flattened against his skull as he wondered if he had overstepped some boundary or crossed some line. But then Lestrade let out a breath. “You've got your chance, Sherlock. You'll be the first to know if he kills again.”

Sherlock risked a glance over at John, and was momentarily stunned by the look of sheer _pride_ on the man's face. John was proud of him. _Him?_ He hadn't done anything too remarkable yet – definitely not anything to deserve that look.

When Lestrade left a few minutes later, Sherlock slid out of his chair and padded over to John, kneeling down to butt his head against the other man's knee. He had gotten used to being able to demand affection whenever he wanted, and there may have been a few occasions where he abused that power, but he knew that John was more than forgiving about that sort of thing. From what he could tell, John enjoyed the petting almost as much as he did, so any remaining guilt he felt about taking up John's time fled.

“You all right?”

Sherlock nodded, rubbing his cheek against John's knee. “Fine. More fatigued that I initially expected.”

He started to purr softly, his eyes closing as he more or less curled around John's calf. He lost track of how long he sat there, having John gently pet his hair and stroke his ears, making them twitch. At some point, John pushed his chair back away from the table, and Sherlock followed him over to the sofa, waiting for him to sit down before jumping up and curling into a ball in John's lap. He kneaded lightly at his stomach until John snorted his laughter, and then rested his head against the man's thigh, closing his eyes again.

There was another period where Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness, John's warmth and steady hand lulling him into a relaxed, boneless state. He took many more naps since he had come to live with John, but he had been assured that it was normal for his type of hybrid. It just meant that his body realized he was safe and cared for, and Sherlock found that he quite agreed with that assessment. 

Some time later, John's phone began to ring. He moved to stand, and Sherlock dutifully shifted out of his lap, moving to curl up in the warm spot John left. He watched the man with one eye open until he turned the corner towards the bedrooms, and then listened, eyes closed again. He could on't make out little snippets of John's conversation, meaning that he had purposefully lowered his voice. 

“...involved with... of course I want... I'm keeping him _safe_...”

Sherlock sighed. John was talking about him, and he couldn't imagine a situation where that was a good thing. He stayed quiet when John returned a few minutes later, only perking up when he smelled a can of tuna being opened. For the most part, he despised the cat stereotype – for tuna, however, he wouldn't gladly be stereotypical.

He shoved his hands into his pockets as he made his way into the kitchen. His ears perked up considerably when he actually saw the bowl of fish, his pink tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“What's the occasion?”

He didn't really expect a serious answer. John didn't reserve certain foods for for certain behaviours or days or anything like that. Like John's affection, food was free and didn't have to be earned. But John got an odd look on his face as he set the bowl down on the table, hesitating before handing a fork over as well.

“I was just talking to one of my friends,” he said after a moment. “Mike is his name. He works with the protestors, the Activists.” John paused, running a hand through his hair. “He's agreed to start looking into Moriarty. Quietly, of course. Not in any official capacity.”

Sherlock waited, because that obviously wasn't all that was on John's mind. It took a moment, but eventually, the man began to speak again. “He thinks it's best if you leave the country, just until we get things sorted out. He believes you, and I think Mycroft might have called him before I did, and you'd be able to come back when we've handled this...”

“You're sending me away?”

Sherlock hadn't meant to speak. He definitely hadn't meant to sound so insecure, so meek. Frightened. Because John was _right_ , and he knew that, even if he didn't like it.

But John shook his head. “Let me finish, yeah? That was Mike's suggestion, to send you off somewhere else until this blows over, but I disagreed. I know you...” He paused. “You can stay, Sherlock. I'm not going to send you away.”

Sherlock nodded, licking a chuck of tuna off his fork. He was well aware that he was acting more cat-like than he usually allowed himself to, but if pretending that he was not phased by that little conversation was possible, he was going to do it. John had dealt with him enough in the short time that they had known each other – he could at least pretend the idea of being forced to leave the man wasn't enough to make him start to panic internally. 

John reached out and ruffled Sherlock's hair, making his ears twitch before he changed the subject. “Lestrade seemed happy enough to have you consulting on the case.”

Sherlock hummed, butting up against John's hand. “Nice to have something to do,” he confessed quietly. “Told you I could be useful.”

“I believed you.”

* * *

When Lestrade returned a few days later, Sherlock was sitting at the window, plucking absently at the strings of his violin. John was at the clinic, and he wouldn't have unlocked the door unless he knew that the person on the other side was, for all intents and purposes, harmless. Lestrade didn't look quite so tired when the door opened, which Sherlock suspected his brother had had a hand in, but he did look... saddened? Exasperated? Perhaps a mixture of the two, but either way, Sherlock knew what had caused the look.

“He's killed again, hasn't he?”

Lestrade sighed, nodded. “But you know how none of them ever leave notes? Well, this one did.”

Sherlock's ears twitched, and then stood straight up. “And I assume, from the fact that you are here instead of at the crime scene, you wish for me to come see?” He knew exactly how eager he sounded, but it didn't matter. He was going to be able to see the evidence firsthand. That was good. That was _perfect_.

“If you would, yeah. I can get you ten minutes. The others working the case are a little skeptical, but...”

“I'm used to it,” Sherlock answered, already pulling out his phone.

_There's been another body. Lestrade wants to take me to it. -SH_

John responded almost immediately.

_Make sure you're wearing your collar. And send me the address? - JW_

Sherlock was wearing the collar, but he reached up to check anyway. He rarely took it off anymore, liking how it reminded him of John. And being safe. When he looked back up at Lestrade, he nodded, eyes bright. “John wants to come by, I think.”

So Lestrade gave him the address (Brixton, Lauriston Gardens), and he sent it to John before sliding into the passenger seat of Lestrade's police car, his ears pricked up. There were a few coils of anxiety deep in his stomach from what Lestrade had said about the other investigators being skeptical, and from simply leaving the flat without John, but he would be able to manage. He had dealt with far worse before.

* * *

_”Heel, boy.”_

Sebastian Moran came to heel immediately, bright golden eyes flashing as he purred. He licked his bloodstained lips, and then arched his back, still more tiger than human even as the gold-and-black fur receded to show human skin. 

His master's hand came down to rest on the back of his neck, over the jeweled collar he always wore. He was proud of that collar. Set with large violet stones and engraved with the letters 'JM,' it not only clearly marked the fact that he was owned, but that his owner was very successful in life.

He raised a hand to his mouth and licked a droplet of blood off the tip of one finger, smirking a little when the canine hybrid behind him began to whimper. It was a pathetic little sound, and his master obviously thought the same thing, because a moment later, the man tossed an, “Oh, do shut up,” in the still-bleeding hybrid's direction.

Pushing up into his master's hand, Sebastian leaned against his chair, his purr loud and steady. It made his master chuckle and earned him a scratch of his ears. _“Well, someone's a happy little kitty,”_ the man said, and had it been anyone else, Sebastian would have torn out their throat for calling him a kitty.

“That one was fun to play with,” he answered, and the hybrid behind him sniffled.

His master chuckled again, and then tipped Sebastian's head back, gripping his hair firmly. The tiger hybrid willingly accepted the hard, almost brutal kiss that his master gave him, his expression turning smug when he noticed how a smear of blood had transferred itself from his own mouth to that of the other man.

Later, after the canine hybrid was just a corpse on the floor, Sebastian curled up at his master's feet, his eyelids drooping in contentment. There was the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, the warmth of the sitting room's fireplace, and the approval of his master still making him ache in all the right places.

What more could he want?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Tosses chapter at you and runs away*


	16. Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel; the pink case; a kiss.

Coveralls were not built for hybrids. John wasn't one, and he could tell that just by looking at Sherlock. The hybrid's tail was tucked down one of the legs, partially curled around his shin, and every few moments, it would twitch halfheartedly before settling down again.

Sherlock himself, however, was anything but uncomfortable. His eyes were bright, his ears perked up, and if the quip about men's deodorants he'd directed at the man outside was anything to go by, then he was entirely in his element. It was an amazing thing to watch, in all honesty. John was more than impressed. He hadn't narrated his thought processes, not yet, but John could almost see his brain working as he bent over the body, thoughts flying past more quickly than John would have even been able to register them. 

Lestrade, the DI, had only been able to give Sherlock two minutes, or so he said. The fact that he was letting the hybrid into the crime scene at all was tell enough in that regard. But from the way Sherlock was moving, examining, John guessed that he wouldn't take much more than two minutes to come up with some sort of... result.

After about a minute of poking around, Sherlock paused and glanced up at him. “Doctor Watson?”

It took John a moment to realize that Sherlock was speaking to him. He crouched down next to the hybrid, looking over at him. “Hmm?”

Sherlock's ears twitched, and he smiled. Genius he was not, but it didn't take one to notice that the hybrid's pupils were dilated, blown up so much that they left only a sliver of gray-blue iris. He was excited, and maybe even aroused. That thought sent an entirely inappropriate shiver down John's spine that managed to distract him enough that he almost missed Sherlock's next words.

“Well? Would you care to help me make a point?”

John cocked an eyebrow. “I'm fairly sure my only purpose here is to keep an eye on you.”

A smile spread over Sherlock's face, and he lifted his chin a little, just enough that John could see his collar. “Yes, well, this is more fun.”

“Fun?” John repeated. “Sherlock, there's a woman lying dead.”

The hybrid glanced down at the woman's body, as if just registering the fact that she was indeed dead, and then looked back at John. “Perfectly sound analysis,” he said, his voice low, quiet. When he spoke again, he was almost purring. “But I was hoping you'd go a little _deeper_.”

Oh. John blinked. He could be fairly oblivious, but between the look in Sherlock's eyes and the purr in his voice, he didn't think that anyone could miss the _intent_ there. That was something they were going to have to discuss. At length. Preferably when they weren't crouching over a dead woman dressed in a painful shade of pink.

Swallowing, John cleared his throat before looking down at the dead woman. Focus. He needed to focus on the task at hand. Leaning down, he sniffed at her mouth carefully, and then lifted her hand to look at it before straightening. 

“She probably asphyxiated. Passed out, ended up choking on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. Could've been a seizure, possibly drugs.”

Sherlock licked his lips, and his head gave a small shake, just enough to make his curls bounce. “You know what it was. You've read the papers.”

“You mean she's one of the suicides?”

John would have continued to say other things, most likely about how it didn't look like a murder, but also probably about how Sherlock's hair looked, or how he needed to stop licking his lips if he wanted John to be able to focus on anything at all, ever again. He would have said any number of things, but Lestrade chose that moment to make his presence known again. Had he left the room? John wasn't sure.

“All right, Sherlock. Time's up. What can you tell me?”

The hybrid barely paused to collect his thoughts. “The victim is in her late thirties. Professional, going by her clothes. Likely something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff for just one night, judging by the size of her suitcase.”

Lestrade just stared, and John realized that he probably looked just as astonished as the DI. “Suitcase?”

“Suitcase, yes.” Sherlock didn't pause, apparently oblivious of the fact that there wasn't a suitcase in the room. “She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. Had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married.”

This time, it was utter disbelief written across Lestrade's features. “Oh, for God's sake. You're making this up!”

For the briefest moment, Sherlock's intense excitement faded, replaced with a look of disappointment. He caught himself almost immediately, though, shaking his head. “I'm not. Look at her wedding ring. Ten years old, at the least. It's practically screaming about the state of her marriage. See how the inside is shinier than the outside? That means she removes it regularly, but never cleans it. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. She doesn't have to do it for work – look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands. So, then, who _does_ she remove her ring for? Obviously not just one lover. There's mo way she would have been able to maintain the facade of being single for very long, so it's most likely a string of them. See?”

There was so much earnestness in Sherlock's voice and eyes. John knew that Lestrade saw it as well, and from the way the DI sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, he was very torn. John had no such qualms. “That's brilliant,” he said, not bothering to keep the pride and admiration out of his voice.

Sherlock beamed at him, his ears pricked forward towards John's voice. His cheeks were a little flushed as well, and John couldn't help but file away that entirely inappropriate piece of information. Praise. Sherlock liked praise. 

“Cardiff?”

Lestrade either wasn't convinced, or he was giving Sherlock another chance to show off. John didn't know the man or his relationship to Sherlock well enough to know which. Either way, Sherlock all but leaped at the opportunity, turning back to the body.

“Her coat is slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours, and there hasn't been rain in London anywhere during that time. It's damp under the collar, too, meaning she likely had it turned up against the wind. There's an umbrella in her pocket, but it's dry and unused – not just wind, then, but _strong_ wind. Too strong to use her umbrella. Her suitcase tells us that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance, but she can't have traveled more than two or three hours, because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been rain and strong wind within the radius of that time?” Grinning broadly now, Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket, pressed a few buttons, and then showed the screen to Lestrade, and then to John. There was a weather webpage displayed for, John assumed...

“Cardiff.”

It really was brilliant. There wasn't any hiding the outright admiration that John was feeling. When Sherlock looked at him again, John smiled and nodded, and Sherlock beamed, pupils blown wide and ears pricked straight up.

Lestrade, however, looked to be at a loss. “Why do you keep mentioning a suitcase? We didn't find one.”

“Of course you did,” Sherlock said immediately. “Her phone is in it. I have a feeling that, onece we can get that, we can find out who Rachel is.”

“Rachel.”

“Obviously what she was writing.” Sherlock pointed at the half-scrawled word on the floor. “The only question is, what made her choose _that_ to write while she was dying?”

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, opening and closing his mouth a few times. “Sherlock,” he said after another moment, “there wasn't a case.”

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, looking up at the DI. “Say that again.”

Looking more and more confused, and more than slightly exasperated, Lestrade motioned at the room. “There wasn't a case! There was never any suitcase.”

For a long moment, Sherlock didn't say anything at all. He stood in the middle of the room, close to the body, tail swishing in the confines of the coveralls. Then, as though he'd been electrocuted, his whole body went straight and stiff. “Oh,” he said, and John had the sudden realization that he now likely knew what Sherlock looked like when he came. The thought jolted him, brought color to his cheeks before he made himself drop his eyes to the ground. Sherlock, thankfully, seemed oblivious. “It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides. They're killings.”

John was beginning to pity Lestrade. The man looked so confused. “Why are you saying that?”

“He case!” Sherlock was practically vibrating at this point. “Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else must have been here, and they took her case.” His voice dropped. “So, the killer must have driven her here and forgotten her case was in the car.”

“She could have checked into a hotel,” John offered, mainly to something other than stare, red-faced, at the floor. “Maybe she left her case there.”

“Sherlock shook his head immediately, and John would have been offended by the quick dismissal if it had been anyone else. “She never got to the hotel. Look at her hair John. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left a hotel with her hair still looking... oh.”

The sound Sherlock made next was very near a squeal. His eyes were bright and wide, and he was actually clapping his hands together just a little in excitement. “Sherlock?” John asked tentatively, just waiting for the dam to break and Sherlock's deductions to come spilling over. 

“Serial killers,” Sherlock said after a moment, “are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.” Grinning broadly, he rubbed his hands together. He looked almost gleeful, and John watched as he glanced at the body again, almost bouncing where he was standing. And then... “Oh.” Sherlock's eyes went wide, and every movement suddenly stopped. “ _Oh_.”

The hears were turning in the hybrid's mind again. John could almost _see_ them. It was fascinating, yet, at the same time, a little disconcerting. The fact that Sherlock could see things, _understand_ things that John couldn't... it made the man winder the things that Sherlock would be capable of in a year or two. What we would already have been capable of if not for Victor.

“Sherlock?” John prompted, clearing his thoughts. What Sherlock did, it wasn't magic. They hybrid could explain. And when he did, it would seem all too painfully obvious.

Sherlock's eyes, bright and wide, flickered up to meet John's. “Look at her, John. Really look. Our killer, he's already made his first mistake.” When John's face remained, as he guessed, confused, Sherlock made an exasperated noise and rolled his eyes. “Pink!”

The hybrid looked between John and Lestrade, and then threw up his hands. “The case. I think we can agree that it was most likely pink, yes?” He waited for the men to nod. “Something like that would be memorable, especially in the possession of a man, which our killer statistically is. A man smart enough to make these murders look like suicides would be smart enough to realize that, so as soon as he did realize that he still had the case, he would have disposed of it.”

When John looked over, Lestrade was nodding slowly. “So, if we find her case...”

“We can find her phone, and more information,” Sherlock finished, just a little breathlessly.

For a moment, John thought that Lestrade was actually going to dismiss everything Sherlock had said. Granted, it was a little... surprising that the hybrid had gotten all of that from the state of the woman's clothes and jewelry, but it all seemed valid enough, at least to John. 

After a long moment, Lestrade sighed. “All right,” he said. “I'll get someone looking into 'Rachel.' If you can find me this case, I'll consider this... serial killer idea.” He nodded, as if he was trying to convince himself of something.

Sherlock, however, didn't seem to be having any doubts. He turned to John, and it took the man a disappointingly long time to realize that the hybrid was waiting for him so they could leave. 

Even collared, if Sherlock wandered the streets alone, at night... God knew what would happen to him. It was an odd change in thinking that made John's eyebrows knit together as he and Sherlock walked down the stairs and removed their coveralls. Perhaps it just highlighted how awful the policies surrounding hybrids were. Because John _knew_ that Sherlock should have been able to run off to find the case on his own.

Not that John wouldn't have followed anyway, but that was besides the point.

When they got outside, John's attention was drawn back to Sherlock, who was, once again, almost vibrating out of his skin. His ears were pricked straight up, and his pupils were blown wide. He made a bit of a picture actually, looking like that and wearing John's collar. 

John let Sherlock dictate where they walked, which seemed to be in ever-widening circles. Sherlock would dart down every little side-street and alley they came across, and this continued for a good hour until, finally, after Sherlock had disappeared down one particularly grimy alleyway, John heard him cry out in success. When he turned to see what it was, he saw Sherlock holding up a pink case in triumph. 

John met him halfway down the alley, unable to resist breaking out in a large smile. Sherlock was _brilliant_. That was all there was to be said about the matter. 

“I was right!” the hybrid was saying, clutching the case close. “Good. Excellent. Now, when Lestrade finds out who Rachel is, we just might have something.”

John made an impressed noise. “That's... I don't think I've ever seen anything quite that fantastic,” he confessed. “Honestly, Sherlock. You were amazing. I don't think you'll have any trouble convincing Lestrade to let you help on more cases.”

“I haven't solved it yet,” Sherlock reminded him. “But we're closer. Much closer, and I have an idea of...” He paused. “You thought I was amazing?”

“Of course,” John answered, and before he could say anything else, his back was pressed up against the alley wall, and his arms were full of one cat hybrid. Letting out an 'oof', he wrapped his arms around Sherlock, tentatively holding him close. “You all right?”

Sherlock nodded against John's chest, silent, and John had only just relaxed enough to sink a little deeper into the embrace when Sherlock leaned back abruptly.

“John, I...” he began, and then trailed off, huffing. “I...” With a frustrated noise, he shook his head, and then, leaning up, pressed his lips to John's.

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm back.
> 
> In other news, _No One There to Save You_ has a playlist! Just search the name of this fic on Spotify, and it'll pop right up. Because the playlist is collaborative, all you guys can (please) add your own songs to it. Do iiiiiiit. I love listening to new music, especially music that can relate to these two idiots.


	17. Moran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian Moran; frottage.

Sebastian could vaguely remember a time when Moriarty hadn't been his master. He remembered being scolded for fighting, and punished severely for drawing blood. No, his life before his current master paled in comparison to what Moriarty gave him. Not only was he _encouraged_ to fight, but his master always rewarded him so nicely whenever Sebastian carried out his orders well.

He enjoyed the thrill he got when all he could taste was blood, but more than that, he enjoyed pleasing his master. Moriarty had shaped him into an efficient killer, had taught him how to please, and now, his one purpose in life was to obey.

His most recent assignment, however, was different from his usual fare. Moriarty had simply instructed him to watch, observe, and report, and to, under _no_ circumstances, attack. Sebastian didn't know _why_ he couldn't. Even with the blond one's obvious military background, it would have been easy to dispose of him and his hybrid both. But his master had only ordered him to watch, so that was what Sebastian did.

He watched as they returned to their rubbish little flat, and, using the cameras he had installed while they were away, he watched as the blond prepared a meal for the two of them. 

Sebastian watched them for a good while, until they settled in the sitting room, the hybrid curled up in the blond man's lap. It was curious, really, how little the man had touched the hybrid. By this time of night, Sebastian's master was almost always in bed, unclothed, gathering himself after having Sebastian use his clever mouth on him. And, almost always, Sebastian would kneeling over him, licking his lips and preening at how well he'd done. This hybrid, however... he almost seemed _shy_.

As Sebastian continued to watch, the hybrid fell asleep on the man, and that was it. The tiger-hybrid could only _imagine_ the reaction his master would have had at such an action. Not that Moriarty would have punished him – the man knew better than that. But he would have at least attempted to deny Sebastian the pleasure of sharing his bed, and that was not something the tiger-hybrid was eager to fight over. 

Still. It was odd, the relationship the hybrid and the blond man shared. It seemed boring, in all honesty. Other than the single kiss in the alleyway, the closest they had gotten to excitement was _cuddling_ on the sofa.

Sebastian snorted, pulling out his cell-phone to compose a text message.

_I don't understand your interest in these two. They're horribly dull. -SM_

A few moments later, his master's reply came through, and it made Sebastian smile.

_Humour me, tiger, and perhaps I'll allow you to play with the pet after we have him. -JM_

With that kind of promise, Sebastian decided that he'd gladly watch the hybrid and the blond man lead their dull lives for as long as he needed to.

* * *

Sherlock half-expected the kiss to change things between him and John, but it didn't. The man still ruffled his hair affectionately, and let Sherlock curl up in his lap and fall asleep on him and smiled down at him when the hybrid awoke. The _only_ thing that changed was that, after he smiled, he leaned down and kissed Sherlock, making the hybrid's ears stand straight up and a purr erupt in his chest. 

When John broke the kiss, Sherlock ducked his head down and hid it against the man's chest, a faint blush tingeing his cheeks. He wasn't used to this, to easy affection without the expectation of anything more, and he found that he _enjoyed_ it. It reminded him of how Victor had been... before. And while there still was the possibility that John might grow tired of him, or decide that he was more trouble than he was worth, Sherlock didn't think that he would.

John did things like make sure he ate, and slept, when all he really wanted to do was investigate the case they'd brought home. And, Sherlock suspected, the man wanted to make sure Lestrade had ample time to come over. It was all a waste of time, really, but Sherlock didn't complain, not when the result was a few hours spent curled up in John's arms, safe and warm.

By the time Lestrade did arrive, however, Sherlock was more than impatient, bordering on restless and antsy. The case was just _sitting_ there, and it could have so much information inside it – all Sherlock had to do was open it. But he waited for Lestrade, even if he all but pounced on the case as soon as the man walked into the flat.

There were all the usual, boring things. Clothes, an excess of toiletries, a coin purse, all of the 'essentials' that women traveled with. What was _not_ in the case, however, was much more interesting than what was inside.

“Her phone is missing,” he informed John, and Lestrade, who was still looking rather unimpressed. He didn't _understand_. If he had, well... perhaps he wouldn't have needed Sherlock in the first place. But it didn't matter, because the hybrid understood the gravity of the missing phone.

“Maybe she left it somewhere,” John suggested, and for a moment, Sherlock just stared at him. He couldn't understand how the man could be so good, so perceptive about Sherlock's wants and needs, but completely oblivious to the other things in the world. The answer was so _obvious_.

“Not by accident,” he said. “Think about it. She matched her clothing and her luggage and had a string of lovers, as well. She wasn't going to be careless with her phone. Now.” Grinning, he rubbed his hands together. Jennifer Wilson had been clever, and because of that, they were going to be able to catch her killer. “If she didn't leave it somewhere accidentally, what is the only conclusion we can draw?”

Lestrade rubbed a hand over his mouth, answering before John could. “She left it somewhere on purpose. But how does that help?”

“ _Because she left her case with her killer!_ ” Sherlock exclaimed. “As soon as he made her leave it there, she had to have known something was wrong. She left her phone there as well, clever girl. It wasn't in the alley with the case, so our conclusion can only be that the killer still has it with him.”

Slightly out of breath, Sherlock looked at Lestrade proudly. “Find the phone, and you'll find your killer,” It was gloriously simple, really. Sherlock's tail swished happily behind him as he waited for Lestrade to speak again. His proud smile only widened when the man leaned down and looked at the luggage tag, making a thoughtful sound.

Sherlock glanced up at John, and the man obviously hadn't bee expecting his gaze, because there was heat in his eyes, bright and intense, and it made Sherlock's mouth go dry. No one had ever looked at him like that, not with that mixture of want and pride and lust and... He swallowed, and made himself look away before he did something embarrassing like crawl into John's lap and beg. For what, he didn't know, but he definitely wanted _something_.

Lestrade stood, and Sherlock focused his attention back on him and the case. John and his intense gaze could wait - _would_ wait, even if Sherlock didn't particularly want the delay. “Short of presenting the killer to you, cuffed and chained,” he said, “I believe I've done everything I can. The phone should lead you directly to him.”

Lestrade nodded, and Sherlock got the feeling that the man hadn't actually expected him to deliver. Well. He'd proved that notion very incorrect. And, if Sherlock had anything to say in the matter, he _would_ present the killer to the DI, cuffed and chained. 

The man thanked the hybrid before he left, but Sherlock barely noticed. He was too busy pulling his phone out of his pocket and quickly typing out a text, intent on getting it send before Lestrade had a chance to investigate the victim's phone number.

_What happened at Lauriston Gdns?_  
I must have blacked out.  
22 Northumberland Street. Please come. 

He glanced up at John, who was watching him with a curious expression, all of the previous heat gone. “You're going to stop investigating?” the man asked, disbelief in his voice, and when had Sherlock become that transparent?

“Eventually,” he said, pocketing his phone. “But isn't it better to have me _and_ Lestrade looking into it?” He smiled. “It's faster this way. The case will be resolved more quickly. Everyone wins.”

“Uh huh.” John didn't look convinced. “Who did you just text?”

It was a valid question. Sherlock currently only had John and Lestrade's numbers saved, and the man knew that. He really did need to answer.

“Jennifer Wilson's phone,” he said, and then watched as the pieces fell into place in John's mind.

It took a good moment, but when John's eyes closed and he ran a hand through his hair, Sherlock knew he'd understood. “You just texted the killer,” he said, and Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what tone of voice that was. It lingered somewhere between disbelief and annoyance, and Sherlock wasn't particularly fond of it. 

“It's perfectly safe,” Sherlock said. “For all he knows, Jennifer Wilson just texted him. He'll be curious, and more than that, he'll be worried.” Darting over to the door, Sherlock grabbed his coat, reaching up to check the latch on his collar to make sure it was secure. “If we're lucky, he'll actually show up, and everything will be over tonight. At the very least, we'll be able to get an idea of who he is.”

John opened his mouth again, and Sherlock knew he was going to ask where they were going. It was going to take a moment to explain, but that didn't matter. He'd gladly explain things to John, wonderful, perfect John, who already knew him too well, who had gotten him a collar and kissed him and managed to be nothing at all like Victor. No, Sherlock had _no_ problem explaining things to John, especially not when it earned him a smile.

* * *

Sebastian was _bored_.

The hybrid and his master had spent time in the flat, along with another man. Sebastian recognized him from the surveillance photos he'd been shown – the DI, who owned the avian hybrid. Sebastian had never liked them. Their feathers always got caught between his teeth.

After that, the feline hybrid and the blond man had departed the flat, and Sebastian had followed them. Getting a vantage point in a flat across the street had been too easy – the hybrid the owner had left at home was curled up at Sebastian's feet, slitted eyes closed and forked, serpentine tongue flicking lazily out of her mouth. When he'd entered the flat, she'd looked at him, pursed her lips, and stretched, before laying back down on a rug on the floor. She had waved at the apartment carelessly before saying, “Take what you want. She hasn't got anything valuable.”

Sebastian liked her. She'd moved to curl up at his feet as soon as he'd sat down, citing the fact that he was marginally warmer than anything else in the room. Yes, Sebastian definitely liked her, and he was sure that his master would as well.

Later, when Sebastian's replacement arrived, the serpentine hybrid was still laying at his feet, sleeping quietly. He nudged her with his foot, and she stretched, hissing at him. For a moment, he stiffened, but when the hiss was followed only by a roll of her eyes and one of the most graceful ways of getting up he had ever seen, he relaxed, the idea that the hybrid was of no threat reinforced in his mind.

He left the new arrival in charge with the same explicit instructions he'd received: observe, but do not interfere. The man rolled his eyes, and Sebastian very nearly slit his throat for it. He might have been a hybrid, but he was _Moriarty's_ pet, and that position warranted a little respect. In the end, he let the man get away unscathed, if only because if he killed him, he'd have to stay on watch, and Sebastian didn't think he could handle another shift of such utter boredom.

It was nearly dawn by the time Sebastian and the serpentine hybrid arrived at Moriarty's current residence, but the light was on in his master's study, so Sebastian knew the man was still awake. He knocked, and when he received a “come in” from the other side, he pushed the door open, leading the other hybrid in behind him.

“Malcolm is on watch,” he said, noticing how his master's attention went immediately to the hybrid behind him.

“Yes, good,” Moriarty said. “Now, who is your friend?”

Sebastian smirked, nudging the other hybrid forward. “Sir, this is Irene. I thought you might like her.”

* * *

While completely unproductive, dinner had been a fantastic idea. The fact that John had insisted on Sherlock sitting at the table, instead of on the floor like the other hybrids, had caused some interesting looks to be thrown their way but dinner itself had been fantastic. Sherlock didn't think he'd ever seen John smile so much, or laugh so openly. The man had also leaned across the table once or twice to touch his hand, and each time, it had sent a thrill through Sherlock's body.

And now, they were back in the flat, and somehow, they'd gone from laugh to Sherlock having placed his hand a little too high on John's thigh. John had been speaking, though Sherlock couldn't remember what he'd been saying for the life of him, but now, he was just looking at Sherlock, eyes dark.

Before John could speak, could tell him that he didn't have to, Sherlock moved, throwing his leg over John's lap. He settled himself, his hands on John's chest, not quite fondling, but not just stabilizing, either, fingers spread wide over John's shirt. Immediately, John's hands came up to Sherlock's hips, as if by reflex, although the man seemed hesitant to do anything else.

Realizing he'd have to take the initiative, Sherlock took a deep breath. “I want...” he began, and then stopped, clearing his throat. “I want you to touch me. And I would like to touch you. I...” Another pause, and this time, a faint blush found its way to Sherlock's cheeks. “I don't want to take clothes off, or anything like -”

“Of course not, Sher-”

“But,” Sherlock said, speaking more firmly over John. “I want to feel good. And I want you to feel good. I believe you want the same thing as well.”

John looked conflicted, like he was going to try to talk Sherlock out of it, so the hybrid leaned forward, hesitantly pressing his lips to John's cheek. “Please,” he murmured, “I... I haven't wanted this in a long time.”

That seemed to do it. John almost jerked under him, hands sliding up to Sherlock's waist before he turned his head and captured the hybrid's lips. All but melting into the kiss, Sherlock made a soft noise, hands coming up to cup either side of John's jaw. _Christ_. He didn't remember kissing to be like this.

Everything was _John_. John was the only thing he could taste, the origin of all the sensations he was registering. If he cared to open his eyes, John would have been all he saw, and it was perfect in ways that Sherlock couldn't even begin to describe.

He pressed up into John's hands, wanting to feel more, and when he sank back down, he straddled John's thigh in just the right way, tearing a gasp of pleasure from his lips. He didn't remember _that_ being as intense, either. Fuck. Was everything really that much better with John?

After a moment of hesitation on John's part, the man shifted deliberately, making a whining keen bubble up out of Sherlock's throat. He was trembling already, and would have been mindlessly rutting against John's thigh, but the man was holding him still with those warm, solid hands on his hips, grinding his thigh _up_ against Sherlock's cock instead of pulling the hybrid down against him.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, shifting his weight so that his own leg was pressed up between John's. He could feel the man through his trousers, a hard, hot line, and the fact that John was just as aroused as Sherlock was sent a thrill up his spine. John _wanted_ him. And Christ, he wanted John.

“John, please,” Sherlock pleaded, though what he was asking _for_ he didn't know. Definitely more – more friction, more touching, more kisses, more _John_.

“Shh, shh, I've got you.” Sherlock trembled against John's mouth, swallowing his words. At the same time, John bent his leg, making Sherlock slide forward a little, and the sudden, unexpected friction was enough to tip Sherlock over the edge. He spasmed, and was vaguely aware of John crying out his name, but the roar of blood in his ears and the heat exploding low in his stomach made it impossible to focus.

When he came to, John was holding him close, smoothing a hand up and down his back, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear. Sherlock felt loose in all the best ways, and it took a great deal of effort for him to turn his head and press his lips to John's skin. He meant to say something like “thank you” or “fantastic” but all that came out was a mumbled, “Sleepy, John.”

The man chuckled, and Sherlock felt him nod. “Go to sleep, 'lock,” he murmured in return. “I'll get us to bed.”

With that reassurance, Sherlock closed his eyes again, and sleep overtook him only a handful of breaths later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, guys. But as you can see, this fic now has a definite number of chapters! And I did include smut in the chapter, before I start to delve too deeply into the angst to come...


	18. Cab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel; Jennifer Wilson; the cab.

John awoke to a face-full of Sherlock's hair, with the hybrid's nose pressed into the crook of his neck, and his purr so loud that John was surprised that he hadn't woken up sooner. For a moment, he just held Sherlock close, but then he shifted and realized that neither of them were wearing pajamas, and the memories of the previous night came flooding back.

He remembered carrying Sherlock upstairs and laying him down on the bed, and how the hybrid had whined when John took his hands off him. He remembered gently slipping Sherlock's trousers down past his hips, and after a moment, his pants as well, because he knew dealing with that mess in the morning was going to be less than pleasant, and cleaning him off carefully, so as not to wake the hybrid. Then he'd done the same for himself before tucking them both into bed, and falling asleep with Sherlock held tightly against himself. 

And now... now Sherlock looked completely blissful and relaxed, and John was loathe to move. He was pretty much always loathe to do anything that would make Sherlock lose sleep, or hurt him at all. Then again, he hadn't had any problems letting Sherlock rub off against him until they both came in their pants, and that was most certainly _not_ what was best for him, even if he was currently sleeping more soundly than John had ever seen before. 

God, this was going to be complicated. 

Around fifteen minutes later, Sherlock began to stir, and John pressed a kiss to his hair, unable to resist smiling a little when Sherlock pressed that much closer to him. No matter what second thoughts he was having, he adored having the hybrid close, especially when Sherlock did it so instinctively. “Morning, love,” he murmured. 

“Morning, John,” Sherlock returned, his voice tinted heavily by his purr. The hybrid stretched, and then settled again, nuzzling John's chest. “Did you enjoy that, last night?”

Maybe it was simply Sherlock's tone, or maybe it was the way it was the first thing he asked about. Either way, John felt his stomach lurch, feeling a little more guilty about what they had done. If he ever found out that Sherlock _had_ only done it because he felt the need to please John, or anything like that, John didn't think he'd ever be able to forgive himself.

Before he could answer, however, or ask Sherlock if _he_ had enjoyed it, someone knocked on the front door. In the blink of an eye, Sherlock had bolted to his feet and was tugging on a par of John's pants (which made the older man pause and take a steadying breath, before throwing his gaze around for a pair of trousers. “John,” he began quickly. “Where are my - ?”

Leaning over the side of the bed, John snatched them up off the floor and tossed them at the hybrid, and then rolled out of bed himself with a groan. He was 99% sure that it was Lestrade at the door, and that meant that he wasn't going to get to talk to Sherlock about what happened for a decent bit of time. The case was the most important thing to Sherlock now, and John understood that he really did, and he was incredibly, irrationally proud of the hybrid for doing this, but he wished that maybe Lestrade had waited for _three bloody more minutes_ so he could have talked to Sherlock.

Later. They would take care of that later.

As soon as he had his clothes on his body enough to be presentable, Sherlock bolted downstairs, and John heard the door open a moment or two later. He followed at his own pace, running a hand through his hair, smoothing it down, before tugging on a pair of pants and trying not to think about how, downstairs, Sherlock was talking to Lestrade, wearing a similar pair.

That shouldn't get him going, either, but here he was all the same. 

Rolling his shoulders back, John walked downstairs, feeling more than a little relieved when he saw that Sherlock had put on the kettle. Really, relief wasn't the word – he wanted to kiss Sherlock silly, and then curl up with him on the sofa and maybe have a repeat the night before and god, he really was a horrible person for thinking that, wasn't he?

Sherlock didn't seem all that affected, which was probably a good thing, but could also just have been a result of being focused on the case, John didn't know. John wasn't sure he wanted to know. Maybe he was overreacting, but the way Sherlock had sounded in bed... it was enough to make anyone wonder.

By the time he sat down, setting a mug down in front of Sherlock and Lestrade, the hybrid was already fully into some stream-of-consciousness tangent, so John held up his hand. “Hold on. Let's catch me up first, yeah?”

Sherlock stopped talking, though he didn't exactly look happy about it, and say back in his chair. John looked to Lestrade. “We found Rachel,” the DI said. “She's Jennifer Wilson's daughter.”

“And as I was _saying_ ,” Sherlock interrupted, “you need to question her. _I_ need to question her.”

“She's dead, Sherlock.”

The hybrid blinked, and John saw confusion flit across his features for a moment before it was buried. “How?” he asked. “And when, and why? There has to be a connection.”

Lestrade looked almost pained, and John understood. Sometimes, people just died, and there was no rhyme or reason or connection. “I doubt there is,” the DI said gently. “She's been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter.”

John grimaced. Yeah, there couldn't be a connection there. Poor woman had been dying, probably more than a little delirious and desperate, and she'd scratched her unborn daughter's name into the floor. It was terribly sad, but it wasn't going to help them, not that John could see. Sherlock, though seemed to have other ideas, though where he was getting them John had no clue. 

“What?” That was Sherlock, and he was frowning, brows drawn in tight. “No. That... that's not right. Why would she do that? _Why_?”

Reaching out, John laid a gentle hand on Sherlock's arm, squeezing lightly. It saddened him a little that Sherlock couldn't understand, had never loved or experienced love that strong, but it wasn't surprising, given his history. “Sherlock,” he began gently. “She thought about her daughter in her last moments. It's not unusual. She just...”

“But that's not it,” Sherlock interrupted, ears pricked straight up. “She didn't just _think_ of her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. It would have taken effort, John. It would have _hurt_.” He looked up at John, like he was making a point and the man just wasn't getting it, which, John thought, was a possibility.

Before he could say something along those lines, though, Lestrade spoke. “Look, you said that all the victims took the poison themselves, right? That he _makes_ them take it somehow. Well, maybe he used the death of her daughter, somehow, to make her take it?”

Sherlock made a dismissive sound, shaking his head. “Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?”

John stopped, mug of tea raised halfway to his mouth, and across the table, Lestrade had a similar look on his face. For a moment, it seemed like Sherlock hadn't noticed anything at all, but then he looked up, meeting John's eyes a little sheepishly. 

“Not good?”

John didn't answer for a moment, taking a sip of his tea. Then he shook his head, breathing in deeply. “ _Bit_ not good, yeah.”

For a moment, Sherlock appeared to be considering that, but then he shook it off and turned to face John. “Yeah, but if you were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds, what you say?”

John didn't hesitate. “Please, God, let me live.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a frustrated huff of breath leaving his mouth. “Oh, use your imagination.”

“I don't have to.”

Sherlock froze solid, hands halfway through some sort of gesture, his eyes fixed on John. Lestrade was looking at him in much of the same way, except with maybe a little less surprise, which John attributed to Mycroft's influence. He looked at Sherlock, who opened his mouth, faltered, and then shifted a little in his seat to bump his head lightly against John's arm, in what almost appeared to be an apology. And, John realized, was also hopelessly endearing.

“Yeah,” Sherlock said after a moment, straightening. “But if you were clever, really clever... Jennifer Wilson was running all those lovers. She was clever.”

Lestrade met John's eyes across the table at the same time that Sherlock said, “She's trying to tell us something,” and his expression held the kind of sympathy that John had seen on the faces of his fellow soldiers. It differed from the sympathy of a civilian, though how, he wasn't exactly sure. He'd never quite been able to put a name to it.

He watched Sherlock for a moment or two, pacing in the sitting room, tail swishing behind him and ears perked straight up, before sighing and getting to his feet. The hybrid was obviously seeing things that he wasn't, that Lestrade wasn't, either, and it seemed that the only thing to do was wait. “I'll make another cuppa,” he said, taking his and Lestrade's cups into the kitchen to put on the kettle. Once there, of course, there was nothing to distract him from his thoughts, and his thoughts had a habit of returning to Sherlock like a moth to a flame.

Sherlock, straddling his thigh.

Sherlock, making those desperate, pleasure-filled noises. 

Sherlock, with his back arching and his whole body going taught as he came.

Sherlock, asking if he had enjoyed that.

Christ, they needed to talk.

A few minutes later, John was distracted again by what sounded like a cry of success from Sherlock. “She was _clever_! She's cleverer than you lot, and she's dead!”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade began, as John came around the corner, but Sherlock didn't so much as pause.

“She didn't lose her phone, don't you see?” His eyes were shining, bright and wide. “She never lost. She planted it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to him!”

“Yes, Sherlock,” Lestrade interrupted again. “But how?”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, turning to face Lestrade. “How? Rachel!”

When both John and Lestrade continued to look at him blankly, Sherlock threw his hands up in the air. “Rachel isn't a name. Don't you see?”

“Then what is it?” John asked, to spare Lestrade from having to ask another apparently obvious question, because Sherlock appeared to almost be working himself into a frenzy, and John wanted to avoid that at all possible costs. 

For a moment, Sherlock just looked at them, and then sighed, rubbing his eyes “The luggage, John. There's an email address on the label.”

Turning, John found the case, read off the email address. “I still don't see what...?”

“Can I borrow your laptop?” Sherlock asked, and john nodded automatically. Sherlock barely paused, grabbing the computer off the coffee table.

“She didn't have a laptop,” he explained, apparently oblivious to the fact that his explanations weren't actually making anything clearer. “She did all her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone. It's email-enabled.” He paused, like that was supposed to mean something. When neither John nor Lestrade responded, he sighed, continuing. “So, there's a website for her account. The username is her email address, and her password is...?”

“Rachel,” John said after a moment, and the smile Sherlock flashed him was absolutely blinding. 

“So we can read her emails,” Lestrade said. “I'm afraid I don't exactly see where this is going.”

“It's a smartphone!” Sherlock yelled back. “It's got a GPS, so you can track it if you lose it. She's leading us right to the man who killed her.”

“Unless he got rid of it,” Lestrade clarified, but John shook his head.

“We know he didn't. It's a long story.” It wasn't, not really, but John didn't want to explain their reasons behind texting a murderer. 

The laptop pinged with a result, and Sherlock looked at the screen, frowning. “No, that can't be right. How can it be here, how?”

“Maybe it was in the case, and fell out somehow when you brought it in?” Lestrade suggested, but Sherlock made a noise, waving his hand.

“What, and I didn't notice?” Sherlock scoffed. “Anyway, we texted him, and he called back.”

That, John supposed, was a pretty succinct way of explaining that they had texted a murderer. He was about to suggest that, maybe, it had fallen out in the alleyway, or perhaps the killer had discarded it after the call, but before he could, Sherlock straightened, glancing down at his hands.

“John?” he asked when he looked up. “Could you run the search again? I... I need to step outside for a moment. Get some fresh air. I'm feeling rather...”

Sherlock didn't need to finish his sentence. John understood. He gently found Sherlock's collar with his fingers, making sure it was secured around the hybrid's neck, and then nodded. “Go on, then.”

Later, he'd realized that was the first time Sherlock had lied to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another chapter for you.


End file.
